


My Boy

by CelestialVoid



Series: Prey [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 74th Hunger Games, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, BAMF Stiles, Blood and Gore, Character Death, District 12, District 12's Perspective, F/M, Gen, Jabber Jays, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tracker Jackers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-06-05 21:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 59,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6724804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I volunteer as tribute!”<br/>John felt hollow, as if someone had belted him in the chest with a baseball bat. All air was gone from his lungs, his heart pounding as he turned towards the voice.<br/>“No,” he gasped breathlessly.<br/>Not him.<br/>It couldn’t be him.<br/>He was just a boy. A boy who had never picked a fight or shown hostility to anyone before in his life– except occasionally sassing a peacekeeper who tested or overstepped their boundaries. A boy who selflessly sacrificed food and resources for others who were no worse off than him. A boy traded his name in at the Reaping every year for tesserae that would help his family live another year. A boy who was nothing more than 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bone.<br/>Not him, John pleaded, the words failing to reach his mouth. Not my boy. Not Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John woke with a start to the gut-wrenching sound of his son’s screams.

He leapt out of his bed and bounded across the small shack, pulling his son back against his chest. He pinned Stiles’ flailing arms to his side and held the boy close. Stiles fought back for a minute, thrashing about as his father whispered softly to him.

The boy’s heart-breaking wail died down to a soft sob as hot tears splashed against the hairs on his father’s strong forearms. He settled back into the security of John’s embrace. Stiles’ fingertips ran along his father’s arms as if feeling for a sense of familiarity. He tried to calm his breathing, his shoulders trembling as he fell weak in his dad’s hold.

The nightmares had troubled the boy for years, but on the day of the Reaping, they were always so much worse.

John sighed, relinquishing his son from his hold and setting him down among the sheets.

Stiles avoided his father’s eyes.

“It’s okay, Dad,” Stiles muttered. “It’s just another nightmare.”

John sighed, his stomach churning with worry.

“Stiles, don’t sign up for the tessera this year,” he instructed solemnly.

“I have to, Dad,” Stiles objected. “Scott and Allison can hunt, but even so, we still have to put enough food on the table for you, Melissa, Allison’s father, Isaac and ourselves. We don’t have enough rations to survive another year without it.”

“We’ll find a way,” John whispered. Hot tears welled up in his eyes as he realised how helpless and desperate they were.

“Dad, it’s fine... Just a couple more years,” Stiles whispered. “If I can make it just a couple more years then we don’t have to worry about the Games anymore.”

“Then what will we do about the rations?”

“I’ll work in the mines,” Stiles offered.

John tried to smother his laughter at the thought of Stiles doing manual labour, but his efforts failed and he snorted. Stiles glared at him and John tried hard to swallow his laughter.

“I’ll earn money one way or another,” Stiles assured him.

John was well aware that they would struggle without the help of the tessera. The mines didn’t pay enough to put dinner on the table.

There was five of them in the house: Stiles and his father who had taken in Melissa and Scott after Rafe died in a collapsed mine, and Isaac who had been collectively adopted after both his parents and his older brother died.

Melissa worked as one of the District’s medical personnel, trading medicine for food and resources or giving it to those who had nothing to trade. John worked alongside Chris in the mines, much like hundreds of others in the District. It paid poorly, but at least it paid. Scott and Stiles were both sixteen, too young to work in the mines but still young enough to skip around, hunt and sell produce – somewhat illegally – without being noticed. Isaac was a year younger than them, but trauma seemed to have limited his maturity, leaving him to rely on the care of the boys and Allison.

They struggled – having to live off the tesserae that Scott and Stiles put in for every year, granted that only covered each of them and their parents – but they survived, although the struggles had worn away at Stiles; years of offering his meals to others was evident in his pale, lanky appearance.

John sighed, his soft blue eyes filled with sorrow as the creases beneath his eyes darkened with shadows.

Stiles gently patted his father’s shoulder and rose from the bed to cross the bedroom.

John watched him move about the cramped room.

The room was small, the thin walls built from wooden planks that bowed with age, the rough grains filled with shadows and the faintest scent of pine – tainted and dominated by the bitter scent of the coal. Two tiny beds were crammed side by side with just enough room to slide between them and over to the small, rotting cupboard that sat beside the door. Stiles tugged at the frayed piece of string that they had looped through the hole where the handle had fallen out years ago. The rusted hinges groaned as he pulled it open and rummaged through the rags. Towards the back were the boy’s dress clothes: worn only for the Reaping and the only suit in his cupboard that didn’t have odd-coloured patches or gaping holes. John watched as the boy ran his fingers over the sleeve, stroking the soft, sky-blue cotton. Stiles pulled it off the small hook and laid it atop the mattress along with a pair of faded grey pants that his father had worn in his youth and a pair of leather shoes which he would polish later.

He left after that, leaving John alone in the room with the sound of his soft footsteps echoing through the open door.

John sighed and dropped his head into his hands.

Seconds later Melissa appeared in the doorway. Her warm brown eyes looked at John with concern.

“Nightmares,” he muttered.

She nodded and sat down next to her friend. “Yours or his?”

“Both,” he sighed, defeated.

Melissa lifted her arm around John’s shoulders, pulling him into her hold.

“What if his name gets called? What if I lose him? I can’t lose him, Melissa. I can’t.”

She could hear the tears rising in his voice. She pressed a tender kiss to the crown of his head. She wanted to tell him that it wouldn’t be Stiles – that they wouldn’t draw his name – but John knew she couldn’t, because there was always the chance that it would be him and there was no way they could ever stop it from happening.

A small voice shattered the quiet of the house.

“I don’t want to.”

Isaac scurried into the bedroom, weakly clambering onto the bed and hiding behind the adults.

“Isaac,” Scott growled, chasing him into the room.

“No,” the smaller boy huffed. He yawned and curled up against John’s side.

Scott held out his hand. “Come on.”

Isaac had learnt by now not to fight back against Scott who was much larger, much faster and much stronger than the scrawny boy, but that didn’t stop him from the occasional outburst – resulting in various injuries: black eyes and bruised ribs mostly.

John wound his arm around Isaac. He gave him a small hug, resting his face against the sandy brown curls atop the boy’s head.

Scott stepped across the small bedroom, waiting for John to weaken his hold before taking Isaac’s hand and leading him out of the room and down the small hallway. The younger boy dragged his feet, mumbling what sounded like a flurry of obscenities as he rubbed at his tired eyes.

“Come on, Isaac,” Scott coaxed. “Just got to get you cleaned up and then we’ll have breakfast.”

“I don’t want to,” Isaac mumbled.

John and Melissa couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight. The boys were an endless source of entertainment for them.

John sighed, his weak smile falling as he wound his arm around his friend. He’d been so caught up in his own worry that he seemed to forget that Melissa risked losing three sons: Stiles, Scott and Isaac. As much as John loved the boys, Melissa went the extra mile for them.

John held her close in the comfort of his arms, gently patting down her the messy waves of her hair.

Her shoulders began to tremble as she struggled to hold back her tears. John let her rest her head on his shoulder, carefully brushing aside a few stray tears that streaked her cheeks and tenderly wiping away a few loose curls behind her ear. She sat upright and took a moment to compose himself. She inhaled deeply and made her way into the kitchen to prepare their breakfast.

John waited for a minute, listening to the sounds of Stiles shuffling about and getting everyone’s clothes, Isaac splashing about in the water while Scott gently scolded him for making a mess, and Melissa’s soft chuckle as she pulled out a loaf of bread and began to slice it.

It was so routine, so normal. Looking in from the outside, you never would have guessed that the lives of three innocent boys hung in the balance.

He rose to his feet and trudged out into the main room, waiting by the doorway as he watched them all.

Stiles collected a dishrag, dampened it and scrubbed at the coal and dust of the five pairs of leather shoes, although it would be redundant because they’d be filthy the second they stepped out the door.

Melissa passed him a slice of bread even though she knew he wouldn’t eat it. But he offered her a grateful smile nonetheless.

Seconds later, Isaac bounced into the room, clean and dressed. Melissa passed him his slice of bread and motioned for him to sit at the table so she could make an attempt at taming his curls.

Melissa passed John a slice of bread which he took gratefully. He stared at it for a second, before he started tearing off chunks and nibbling at the small pieces.

Stiles finished buffing the shoes before taking his turn in the bath. He tugged his rag-like tee-shirt over his head and tossed it across the room, ignoring his father’s grunt of disapproval.

Stiles and Scott continued the routine, bathing and dressing before emptying and refilling the tub for their parents.

Scott was dressed in seconds. He shook the stray droplets of water free of his head as he walked down the hallway.

John offered his half eaten slice of bread to the boy.

Scott looked at him, brow lifted with confusion.

“You’re a growing boy. You need your strength,” John muttered. It was his way of saying ‘I don’t want it’ – something his son had picked up from him.

Scott smiled and bit into the bread, chewing it as he set it aside with his own slice and slid Isaac’s shoes on, tightening the laces and looping them into a bow.

John could hear his son sloshing about as he rose out of the bath and refilled it with the clean boiled water.

John caught Melissa’s eye and nodded towards the bath. She deserved to have the warmer bath.

She sighed and made her way into the small alcove of their ‘bathroom’. She was quick, scrubbing the coal and dust from her pores and rubbing the strawberry scented lotion across her pale skin before emerging and wrapping herself in a dressing gown.

John glanced over his shoulder. Stiles emerged from their room, dressed in his best clothes. His dark chocolate eyes were misted and his gaze unfocused.

John tussled his scruffy hair, but the boy didn’t seem to notice.

Stiles sat down at the table to put on his own shoes. He surrendered his slice of bread to Isaac, who had been eyeing it eagerly.

John sighed and took his turn in the bath.

He stripped and sank into the warm water with a sigh.

He didn’t waste time. He scrubbed the coal and dust out of his pores before getting out of the old tub and draining the water. The putrid brown liquid left a trail of grime down the curved sides of the tub.

He dressed quickly and stepped into the main room.

He watched as Isaac nibbed at the slice of bread, Melissa trying without success to brush his golden curls. Scott sat across the table, swallowing mouthfuls of bread as he laced up his own shoes.

They were an odd bunch, but they were a family.

John sighed.

Every year he had to remind himself that they faced the grim reality of one of them being taken away.

He stepped forward over the groaning floorboards and rested his heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. Stiles turned and John could see the reflection of his remorseful expression in the depths of the boy’s bright eyes.

His voice warm and husky as he whispered, “It’s time.”

They trudged down the streets, blending into the crowd that streamed through District Twelve.

John took Melissa’s hand as they were pulled away from the boys, guided into the gathering crowds of adults. He could hear her quiet sobs as scared tears formed in her eyes. He ran the calloused ball of his thumb across the back of her hand, earning a reassuring gently squeeze in return. They shuffled through the crowd until they found Chris. Melissa offered him a kind smile as they stood beside him.

They watched as the children were divided and herded into age groups like lambs to the slaughter.

The presenter, a young lady – no older than the boys – from the Capitol, stepped up onto the stage and introduced herself as Lydia Martin.

She was dolled up like a work of art, dressed in a frilly white cocktail dress, with a trail of pastel coloured butterflies trailing up over her shoulder and into the curls of her strawberry blonde hair. Natural hair, not an ugly wig like all the other presenters or citizens of the Capitol would wear.

The previous victors – well, _victor_ – of District Twelve, Peter Hale, joined her. He had won the Games a few of years ago, and became a recluse not long after that. He wasn’t an attractive man, but he did present himself well. He had light brown hair, sleeked back to reveal his firm expression and surprisingly youthful face. There was no mistaking he had been in the Games; it had scarred him: darkened his bright blue eyes and revealed his sardonic, manipulative, sociopathic nature.

The mayor of District Twelve followed the others up onto the stage, stepping forward to present his annual speech about how the Hunger Games provided the Districts with peace through the sacrifice one young man and woman between the ages of twelve and eighteen from each District. They are to participate in the Games in order to never repeat the rebellion and tragedy of District Thirteen or the Dark Days.

When he finished Lydia stepped forward, strutting across the stage and balancing atop high heels. The caps of her heels tapped the plating of the podium. She stepped up to the microphone and smiled sweetly.

“I wish you all a happy Hunger Games,” she chirped. “And may the odds be _ever_ in your favour.”

Silence fell over District Twelve.

“Ladies first.”

Melissa reached for Chris, sliding her hand into his. Usually he would pull away, but for Melissa he would make the exception, especially today.

They held their breaths, their heartbeats pounding in their ears and lungs burning for air as Lydia buried her hand into the glistening glass bowl filled with names. Her fingers stirred the paper slips about as she plucked one from the mess. She stepped back over to the microphone and opened the folded paper.

“Allison Argent.”

A weak breath fell from Melissa’s lips.

Chris’ expression was void. His blue eyes were misted with thoughts and deep set emotions. He was trying hard to maintain his stern composure.

They turned their heads in unison, staring across the crowd towards the young girl.

The cameras turned on her, her face projected across the large screens above the Justice Building.

Melissa squeezed Chris’ hand, knowing he wanted to cry but couldn’t.

His cold eyes were fixed on his daughter as she dusted down her pastel blue dress, lifted her head and walked proudly out of the rows. She made her way towards the stage and stood silently beside the presenter.

She was beautiful. Her hair was braided into a crown around her head and a wave of long dark curls cascaded down her back. The dark locks framed her glowing skin. Narrow eyebrows swept over the elegantly curved of her eyes. The curve of her nose was accentuated by her plump lips. She held her composure, something she picked up from her father, as she stepped up onstage.

Lydia greeted her, “My my, Allison, you look gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” Allison replied politely. Her plump pink lips were lifted into a kind smile. “So do you.”

“Do you have family out here today?” Lydia asked as if she didn’t already know that it was compulsory attendance.

“Yes, my dad.” She turned her bright eyes to the crowd, finding the man’s weary face. She gave him a small nod.

Chris sighed, his shoulders dropping in defeat. Hot tears prickled his eyes as he bit into his trembling lips. He was struggling to hold his composure.

Lydia turned and walked across the stage to the second glass bowl.

“And now, our male tribute.”

The whole of District Twelve froze as Lydia burrowed her painted nails into the second glass bowl. She wound her slender fingers around a folded paper slip and drew it out of the flurry of crackling papers. She stepped back in front of the microphone. She unfolded the slip and held it before herself. Her soft green eyes rolled over the typed name as she swallowed hard and read it out, her bright pink lips moving around the name.

“Scott McCall.”

“No,” Melissa gasped, breathlessly.

John took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. The warm air around him thinned, unbreathable. Hot tears burnt at his eyes, blurring his vision and streaking lights across the worlds around him.

They turned and looked at the boy.

Scott looked broken. The sparkle of his eyes faded as he turned and walked down the aisle towards the peacekeepers.

The crowd was silent, stunned. The only sound was the echo of two broken wails: Melissa’s and Isaac’s.

Melissa collapsed into John’s arms, a heart-breaking cry falling from her lips. He held her close, her slender fingers clawing at his shirt.

John turned his attention to Isaac who flailed about in the crowd, racing towards the aisle and falling into the arms of peacekeepers as he screamed and desperately reached out for Scott.

Tears streaked Scott’s golden cheeks as he tried to walk past the crying boy.

John eyes were hot and heavy as he fought back his own tears.

“I volunteer!”

John felt hollow, his heart pounding as he turned towards the voice.

“No,” he whispered, lungs desperately burning for air.

The boy stepped out from the crowd, valiantly facing forward as he steadied his voice and repeated, “I volunteer.”

 _Not him_ , John pleaded. _It can’t be him._

He was just a boy. A boy who had never picked a fight or shown hostility to anyone before in his life– except occasionally sassing a peacekeeper who tested or overstepped their boundaries. A boy who selflessly sacrificed food and resources for others who were no worse off than him. A boy traded his name in at the Reaping every year for tesserae that would help his family live another year. A boy who was nothing more than 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bone.

 _Not him,_ John pleaded, the words failing to reach his mouth. _Not my boy. Not Stiles._


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles stood among the silence.

All eyes were on him.

Scott turned slowly, as if he didn’t believe it had actually happened. Stiles returned his stunned gaze with as much composure as he could muster, noticing how his friend’s lips were parted ever so slightly; ready to refuse and seal his own fate. Stiles shook his head, glaring at Scott.

Tears welled in the dark depths of Scott’s eyes.

“I volunteer as tribute,” Stiles repeated with finality.

Stiles walked up to Scott’s side and whispered something to his friend.

Scott’s lips trembled as he tried to form words, but his voice failed him. He nodded and stepped back towards the crowd, tears falling from his eyes as he collected Isaac in his arms, holding the boy close and whispering to him reassuringly as the younger boy dissolved into tears. Isaac’s slender hands clawed at Scott’s shirt, his grip so tight that his knuckles threatened to burst through the sheet of pale skin that covered them.

“No. Stiles,” John called to his son. He leapt forward, fighting off the peacekeepers who tried to retrain him. Melissa was crying, her trembling hands gently pulling at John’s arms.

Stiles – skinny, defenceless Stiles – stepped up onto the small podium, clenching his trembling hands into fists. He kept his eyes on Lydia as he walked over to the presenter’s side.

“What’s your name?” Lydia asked, her voice soft and sweet.

“Stiles,” he replied, voice croaking with strain. “Stiles Stilinski.”

“That was a brave and noble sacrifice you just made, Stiles,” Lydia announced. “May I ask, why?”

“Because he’s my friend. He’s my brother.” He glanced up at Scott, tears stinging his eyes. “I’d do anything for him.”

John thrashed about in the arms of the peacekeepers, screaming for his son and fighting to break free.

“Is that your father?” Lydia asked.

“Yes,” Stiles replied weakly, his voice quiet and heart breaking as he looked over at the worn man, slumped over the arms of the peacekeepers and crying as Melissa tried to pull him back into her arms.

“Do you have something you want to say to him?” Lydia asked.

Stiles nodded. “I’ll be okay, Dad.”

John fell still, tears streaking his worn face.

"It’ll be okay. I promise.”

Their presentation was brought to an end by the playing of the Capitol anthem. When the music finished and Allison and Stiles were guided towards the Justice Building behind the stage, the crowd caught their attention with one final gesture. The pressed three fingers to their lips and raised them high in the air. The funeral salute of District Twelve. It was a farewell, a thank you to those departed. It was one last goodbye.

Stiles and Allison nodded, given no time to react as they were ushered inside the building.

The Reaping was brought to an end and the crowd dissipated. Children ran into the arms of their parents and families rejoiced that their child hadn’t been selected.

They were left alone in the open space.

Melissa ran to Scott and Isaac, falling to her knees and pulling her boys into her arms. She held them close, littering kisses across their faces as glistening tears fell from her eyes.

John and Chris joined them. When Melissa finally relinquished her hold, they pulled the boys into their arms.

“I’m sorry,” Scott sobbed against John’s shirt.

John gently tussled his hair, pulling him closer. “Don’t be. Stiles made his choice, and he would do it a hundred times over without any hesitation for you.”

He pressed a tender kiss to the crown of Scott’s head, letting the boy step back and turn to Isaac.

“Do you want to go and say goodbye?” he asked gently.

Isaac nodded, sniffing back another wave of tears.

Scott held out his hand and Isaac took it. He walked the boy towards the Justice Building.

Scott glanced at the large double doors that lead out into tunnelling darkness of the building’s hallways.

“Who are you coming to see?” the peacekeeper by the door inquired.

“Stiles and Allison,” Scott replied.

The peacekeeper nodded, leading them down the hallway until they stopped outside of a small office door.

“You have two minutes to say goodbye,” the peacekeeper told them as he took a hold of the handle and shoved the door open.

The doors rattled about on their aged hinges.

Stiles sat upright in the chair, bright eyes turning towards the figures in the doorway.

Isaac nearly fell face first onto the rough wooden floor as he stumbled into the room and sprinted to Stiles’ side. He leapt into Stiles’ arms, nearly knocking the frail boy off the chair. He buried his face in the boy’s shoulder and cried. Stiles gently shushed him, patting down the mess of Isaac’s untameable golden curls and rocking him.

“It’s okay, Isaac,” he assured the sobbing child.

He looked over the boy’s shoulder at his best friend. Scott’s usually golden skin was flushed and pale, his dark eyes bloodshot and glistening with tears. He stood away from Stiles as if he was scared to come closer.

Stiles set Isaac down on his lap, holding the boy’s slender hand as he turned to face Scott.

“I’m sorry,” Scott muttered.

Stiles shook his head, glaring at Scott.

“It’s not your fault, man,” Stiles replied. “It’ll be okay, Scott. But you can’t phase out,” Stiles said firmly. “Everyone’s depending on you. You can hunt and you have the extra rations thanks to the tesserae, but you need to take care of your mum, my dad, Isaac _and_ Mr Argent. Got it?”

Scott nodded, stepping forward to pull his friend into his arms. “This is my fault.”

“No, it’s not. I volunteered.”

“You’re an idiot,” Scott muttered.

“I know,” Stiles whispered. “Stay safe.”

The peacekeepers pushed open the doors and stepped into the small office.

Scott relinquished his hold on Stiles, failing to hold back his tears as he whispered, “Do your best to survive this.”

Stiles nodded, glancing down at Isaac.

Scott dropped his hand to the smaller boy’s shoulder and whispered, “Time to go.”

Isaac wound his arms around Stiles’ waist, hugging him tightly and screaming as Scott tried to pull him away. Stiles gave Isaac one last hug goodbye, holding the small boy close in his warm hold before lifting him up and handing him over to Scott.

Scott offered Stiles a soft smile that said it all, ignoring the smaller boy that flailed about in his arms and wailed like a banshee.

Scott fought back against Isaac, blinking away the tears that blurred his vision as he carried the thrashing child out of the room.

“Take care of them, Scott,” Stiles called after them.

Isaac let out a desperate, heart-breaking cry that echoed down the halls of the Justice Building.

Scott bundled the boy up in his arms, cradling his fragile body and holding him close. He whispered soft words to the boy, shushing him and calming him.

Melissa and John hurried over to the boy’s sides. Melissa pulled Isaac into her arms, gently swaying him as his warm tears soaked through the pale blue curtain of her dress.

“How is he?” John asked.

“Same old Stiles,” Scott replied.

John craned his neck to look at the younger boy. “Isaac, are you going to say goodbye to Allison too?”

“I don’t want to,” the boy cried. “They can’t go if I don’t say goodbye.”

“Isaac,” Scott started but his voice failed him. He bit his lip and held out his hand. “Come on.”

“No!” the boy screamed.

Scott struggled to keep his voice level. “Isaac, they have to leave. I wish I could do something to stop them but I can’t. If we don’t say goodbye now, then we may never get the chance again. I’m going to go see Allison, and it’s up to you whether you want to come or not, but if you don’t you won’t get another chance to see her again.”

Isaac stifled his sobs and held his hand out to Scott.

The older boy took Isaac’s hand and walked him down the hall to the office where Allison waited, finishing up her conversation with her father.

John sighed, taking a moment to prepare himself.

“I don’t think I can do this,” John rasped. “I love the boys, but Stiles is my _son_. He’s all I have left. I can’t let him go.”

“I’ll come with you,” Melissa offered.

“Thank you,” John whispered weakly.

Melissa took a hold of his hand, cupping it in her won and patting it gently. She walked him down the hallway. They paused outside the office door and waited for John to nodded, signifying he was ready to go in, before she pushed open the rattling old door.

He practically fell atop of Stiles, holding the boy close as he cried. Hot tears splashed against the cotton of Stiles’ dress shirt, seeping into the rough fibres of the collar.

Stiles wound his arms around his dad’s broad shoulders.

“You can’t go,” John sobbed.

“Dad-”

“No, it’s not okay,” his father interrupted. “You don’t have your pillow. You can’t go anywhere without your pillow.”

“Dad,” Stiles interjected before the old man worked himself into a frenzy.

He looked his son in the eye. He knew his age showed but he didn’t have Chris’ composure, and even if he did, John felt so weak and helpless in that moment that it wouldn’t have made a difference.

Stiles’ voice broke a little as he whispered, “It’s okay.”

John cupped his son’s cheek, looking at him lovingly and trying to memorise every inch of the boy’s face. He tried to memorise his mole-speckle pale skin and the coffee-brown eyes he got from his mother. He tried to memorise the rosy pink blush that coloured his cheeks and his little dimples when he smiled. He tried to memorise every small detail of the boy’s face as if he was never going to see him again.

Tears streamed down the old man’s cheeks as he whispered, “I love you, Stiles.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

Melissa stepped forward, resting a hand on John shoulder. He sat back a little and let Melissa through. She shuffled forward to press a tender kiss to Stiles’ forehead, gently cupping his cheek and looking deep into the shimmering depths of the boy’s chocolate-brown irises. He could tell how grateful she was that he volunteered to save her son, but in a way she was losing another son.

Stiles smiled at her weakly. He never had to say anything to her, she understood.

The peacekeepers knocked at the door and stepped into the room, standing silently in the doorway with guns in their hands – a silent reminder that defiance would not end well.

Melissa pressed another kiss to Stiles’ forehead and whispered, “Goodbye, sweetie.”

“Bye,” Stiles replied weakly.

Melissa rose to her feet, using the hand that rested on her best friend’s shoulder to gently urge John to step away from the boy. The man leant forward to hold his son one last time, kissing Stiles’ temple and gently stroking his son’s cheek as he leant back, tears streaking his weary, wrinkled face. He forced himself to step away from his son, falling into Melissa’s arms as she guided him towards the door.

The heavy doors groaned as they closed behind them.

John fell into Melissa’s arms.

She held him close, whispering that it would all be okay like she had so many years ago when she had told him that he had lost his wife.

Isaac sprinted to their side and John held him close as the boy cried, “Don’t let them go. Don’t let them take them away.”

Scott stood a few steps down the hallway, defeated.

Melissa held out her hand for him.

He dragged his feet across the withered floorboards and took a hold of his mum’s hand, leaning against her shoulder.

“Are you going to see her?” Chris whispered.

Melissa shook her head blinking back tears as she replied, “I can’t… I love her, but I can’t.”

Chris took a step closer and would his arms around her, cradling her against his broad chest and holding her close as she cried, her tears seeping into his shirt.

Chris rested his free hand on Scott’s shoulder and nodded towards the large double doors of the building. The peacekeepers escorted them outside where Isaac collapsed to the ground. John fell to his knees and held him close, gently shushing him and patting down his sandy curls.

The young boy’s gut-wrenching broken wail echoed across the open space.

“It’ll be okay,” John whispered, hating himself for lying to the child but deep down he knew he needed to lie to himself too. “It’ll be okay.”

Chris rested his arm around Scott’s shoulders, comforting the young boy.

Melissa rested her hand on Chris’ forearm and whispered, “You’re coming home with us.”

“I’m fine,” he objected, struggling to hold his composure as glimmers of painful emotions seeping through the fractures.

“I’m not letting you go home to an empty house, Chris,” Melissa insisted.

“Melissa, it’s okay. Really, it is.”

“Chris,” John interjected, rising to his feet and lifting Isaac into his arms. The small boy’s head fell against the curve of the man’s broad shoulders, his fingers weakly tugging at John’s shirt.

“She’s right,” he continued, turning his forceful blue eyes on his friend. “You’re staying with us.”


	3. Chapter 3

The house had never been so quiet.

Most days that would be a relief, but this time it seemed so wrong. And no matter how much noise Melissa made with the pots in the kitchen or John’s heavy footsteps made as he walked down the hallway, there was no mistaking that someone was missing.

No-one spoke.

Scott would occasionally cast a glance towards John, his dark eyes full of sorrow, regret and guilt.

John wished he could cast aside the boy’s doubt by telling him that it wasn’t his fault that Stiles had volunteered, but he knew Scott wouldn’t believe him.

Isaac would occasionally burst into tears, collapsing to the ground and curling up in a ball until someone came and lifted him into their arms.

John had agreed to let Chris sleep in Stiles’ bed, but there was no doubt that he, Scott or Chris would end up sharing with Isaac.

Dinner was silent aside from the tapping of utensils and sipping of their soups.

“Isaac, you’ve got to eat,” Scott encouraged, glancing across the table at the boy who glared at his food as it if were the source of all his problems.

“I don’t want to,” Isaac mumbled.

“Isaac,” Scott stated, softly.

“No!” the boy cried.

“Why not?” Scott asked.

Isaac muttered something, dissolving into a blubbering mess of tears.

Scott rose from his seat and pulled the boy into a warm embrace.

“I won’t eat his food anymore,” Isaac blubbered. “And I’ll take baths and I’ll wake up when I’m told to, I promise, just please bring him back. Please!”

Scott rested his chin atop the boy’s head, letting Isaac’s hot tears seep through his shirt. He gently rocked the boy, whispering softly to him.

John watched on, shocked.

Isaac was always so bubbly. Even though he was fifteen, he always seemed so energetic and upbeat, clinging to his naivety. He was their beacon of hope. It gave them peace to see that the Games, poverty and the trauma of being an orphan hadn’t yet rattled that precious naivety out of him. But to see him in a mess of tears and begging for someone they had lost broke them.

John rose from his chair.

“Come on, kiddo,” he whispered, lifting Isaac’s lanky body into his arms and carrying the small boy into his and Scott’s bedroom. He sat down on his bed, settling the boy in his lap and holding him close. He stroked away the stay curls that fell across Isaac’s face, slowly rocking the boy like he would Stiles after his nightmares.

“I want Stiles,” Isaac whimpered.

“I know,” John whispered, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of the boy’s head. “I do too.”

“Is he coming back?”

John was silent for a moment.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. As slim as the boy’s chances were, he still had a chance. “But you know what? The sooner you get to sleep, the sooner tomorrow will come and then we can see Stiles and Allison on the TV,” John added, trying to hold a false tone of joy in his voice.

He set the small boy down among the sheets and pulled the thin blanket over his slim figure. He lovingly stroked Isaac’s curls as heavy eyelids fell over the boy’s sparkling blue eyes.

“Got to brush my teeth,” Isaac slurred, already half-asleep.

“I’ll let it slide this time,” John whispered.

Isaac hummed and curled up beneath the thin sheets, content. His whole body relaxed as he sank further into the mattress.

John sat on the edge of his bed for a few minutes more, watching the boy slip into peaceful sleep.

 _Thank God it wasn’t him_ , John said to himself. As much as it hurt to have heard Scott’s name called and to see Stiles volunteer, he couldn’t imagine the horror the boys would have gone through if Isaac had been picked. Scott and Stiles wouldn’t have allowed it: they would have volunteered in a heartbeat without the slightest hint of hesitation. But, even so, the haunting thought lingered.

He turned to rise when he noticed a silhouette in the doorway.

“It’s my fault,” Scott rasped.

“No,” John started, keeping his voice low so they wouldn’t disturb Isaac.

“It is. It was my name that got called out. I should have gone.”

“Stiles would never have allowed it. He would have killed you if you left Isaac all alone.”

“But he wouldn’t be alone,” Scott objected, struggling to keep his voice low. “He’d have Stiles, and that’s who he wants.”

“And if you had gone then he’d be crying for you.”

Isaac stirred, rolling over to face the wall with a small huff.

Scott watching him with sad eyes. “I can’t help him. I can’t help either of them.”

“Yes, you can. Just don’t give up.”

Scott scoffed at John’s remark.

“You can’t just walk into the Capitol to free him,” John said firmly. “It might not seem like much, but if you stay strong then you’ll be exactly what they need: support for Isaac and relief for Stiles – to know his sacrifice was not in vain.”

“How can you be so calm about this?” Scott asked.

“I’m not. I’m exactly the same as you, only I have to stay strong for you boys and your mum,” he replied. “It’s what a father does.”

“I don’t know if I can be that strong,” Scott muttered, the light of the hallway lighting the glimmer of tears that filled his eyes.

“You don’t have to be. Come here.” John rose from the bed and pulled Scott into his arms. He cradled the back of the boy’s head as he buried his face in the collar of John’s shirt, grabbing at fistfuls of the worn cotton as he was overwhelmed by another wave of tears.

John held him close and let the boy cry until he was exhausted. He stayed with the boy until he settled and got ready for bed.

As John left, he heard the sound of rustling sheets, pattering footsteps and soft whispers as Isaac crawled into bed with Scott.

He joined Melissa and Chris in the main room, offering to help Melissa wash the dishes and clean up. He tried to keep himself as busy as he possibly could until exhaustion finally took over and he crawled into bed.

John didn’t sleep well that night, stirring every time he heard Isaac cry and Scott shuffle about to hold the boy. Every time his eyes felt heavy enough to fall shut he expected to wake up to his son’s screams and so he listened to the disturbing quiet of the house and the quiet rumble of Chris’ snoring.

 

It was mid-afternoon before District Twelve got enough power to run the televisions. The streets were filled with the echo of the Capitol anthem as the screens around the District lit up.

John, Chris, Melissa and the boys joined the small crowd that gathered in the commonplace of the District, watching the flashing images of the compulsory viewing flickered across the large screens out the front of the Justice Building.

The presenters – as inhuman as they looked – did not waste any time with needless banter, instead choosing to go straight into the reruns of the Reaping Ceremonies and the presentation of the tributes.

John felt numb as he watched the faces appear on the screen, his stomach churning as he numbly reached for Melissa’s hand.

Bright blue letters rolled across the bottom of the screen.

District 1.

The female tribute was first. A volunteer, as usual.

Her name was Kali and she looked like she would kill without hesitation. Her teeth and nails had been filed to sharp points and seemed to glow against her chocolate-brown skin. Her long hair billowed down her back, streaked by gold and orange. She had a slender figure but she had enough muscle on her that she looked like she could hold her own in a fight, Career or not.

Her fellow tribute, Ennis, was the complete opposite of her: tall, bulky, strongly built, a square jaw and cold clear eyes. His hair had been shaved off. Unlike Kali, he didn’t have modified body parts, but his bulging biceps were threatening enough. But like Kali, he had volunteered.

The screen lit up with the bright blue lettering again.

District 2.

The female tribute volunteered as soon as the presenter had offered.

Kate Argent was her name. And it didn’t take much to know she was a killer.

She was a beautiful young lady, bridging seventeen or eighteen, with a golden wave of curls that cascaded down her back, bouncing off her translucent skin as she pranced up onstage and stood next to the presenter. Her smile was beautiful: pearly white teeth gleaming and her sapphire blue eyes sparkling. But there was a cynical twist to it – a glint of pride and confidence that gave away the fact that she was a Career, a trained hunter.

“Shit,” Chris hissed.

“What’s wrong?” Melissa asked.

“That’s my sister.”

“Your sister?” Melissa gasped. “But how?”

“I used to live in Two, but moved here when I married Victoria,” Chris explained, his bright blue eyes fixed on the screen.

“And Allison,” John whispered. “Does she know Kate?"

“No, she’s never met her aunt and Kate has never met her.”

“And the first time they’re ever going to meet is in the arena,” Melissa whispered.

Chris let the conversation drop as the image of the next tribute lit up the screen. He was just as gorgeous and just as threatening.

His name was Derek Hale.

He was about the same age as Kate, with short black hair and a shadow of a beard dusting his firm jaw. His wide-set eyes were pale beneath his dark brows, his sparkling irises shifting colour in the light: from hazel to pale aventurine, to a shade of light blue – clear, bright and focused, darkened by the lingering shadows beneath them. He was calm and composed and focused, staring straight down the camera with a confidence that fit him so well.

He was obviously built for fighting, with broad shoulders and firm biceps pressing against the sleeves of his shirt, the V-neck dipping down over his beige skin.

John’s breathing was shallow as fear and worry set in. Stiles didn’t stand a chance.

“I thought they chose children as tributes, not gods,” Scott mused, jaw slack.

Melissa gently nudged him.

The boy from District Three, Jackson Whittemore, had also volunteered. He looked like Ennis; strong built and confident. However he was younger than Ennis, with short-cropped chestnut hair and a cynical snarl.

The female tribute from the same District was a gorgeous young girl with a calm composure and strong expression. The long blonde waves of her hair cascaded down her back, a few strands sitting loose around her face and framing her translucent skin. John was shocked by how strong she was, standing proud despite being a fifteen-year-old facing death. Her name scrolled across the bottom of the screen, one John wouldn’t forget: Erica Reyes.

District Four’s tributes were both dragged away from their families. Liam Dunbar, the male tribute, looked to be no older than thirteen. He had bright eyes and chubby cheeks. His short chestnut-brown hair was ruffled and messy. His fellow tribute, Malia Tate, seemed stunned when her name was called – unable to talk or move. She was dragged out of the crowd by peacekeepers, frantically glancing over her shoulders at someone in the crowd. Among the noise of the recording, her father’s rough voice could be heard calling out for her. Her caramel curls were pulled back into a loose pony tail that whipped back and forth as she looked back at him, scared.

The screen lit up with the title ‘District 5’ and the recap of the Reaping played. It was the same thing.

The first tribute chosen was a young boy by the name of Jordan Parrish. He walked up to the stage proudly, his jade eyes glittering as he stared out across the gathering crowd of the District.

The girl from District Five – Kira Yukimura – looked so young and terrified, walking up on stage on her own while no-one dared volunteer for her. Her rounded features showed her Asian heritage – a beautiful mix of Japanese and Korean that her ancestors had passed on to her. She only just made the age barrier, looking to be only twelve years old. Her parents were heard screaming for her, only to be silenced by the peacekeepers.

“The poor darling,” Melissa whispered.

John gently squeezed her hand.

One by one, the rest of the tributes were presented to them – their faces lighting up the screen but only a few names seemed to stick with him: the older boy with a cynical smile from District Seven, Theo Raeken, and his companion with an equally fierce glare, Jennifer Blake, and the two tributes from District Eleven, Vernon Boyd and Braeden. He didn’t know what it was about the last two, but John felt his heart sink when the boy walked away from the screams of three little girls and his mother.

Finally, it was their turn.

‘District 12’ lit up the screen.

Isaac turned his head into Scott’s broad chest and muttered, “I can’t watch this, not again.”

The others struggled through it, their breaths were uneasy and their bodies trembled as they held back tears, hearing the voices and seeing the faces of their loved ones, of those they had let go.

They watched as Allison boldly walked up onstage and Stiles screamed those infamous words at the top of his lungs.

John felt numb, just watching his son’s face.

The presenter returned on the screen, introducing the rerun of the Opening Ceremony.

They watched as the glossy black chariots emerged from the Tribute Centre. Each chariot was led by two black horses and carried the tributes from each District, dressed in glamourous gowns.

District Twelve brought up the rear.

Stiles was dressed in a gleaming white dress suit, the rippling fabric of his long coat tails trailing in ribbons far behind him. His undershirt was black with a faint grey trim. It seemed to fit well enough, making his slender, undernourished body seem full and healthy. His moonlight-pale skin seemed to hold some colour in comparison to the bleached white suit.

Allison was with him, dressed in an exquisite white gown. The corset was made of rippling fabric that was pinched and pulled together, dipping down to her cleavage and hugging the curves of her elegant figure. The fabric billowed out from her waist, the rippling soft cotton dip dyed orange around the hem. Her hair had been tidied, still fastened in a billowing wave of dark hair that coursed over her shoulders, with a thin braided crown circling her head – now decorated with small ruby gems. She still wore her necklace – a family heirloom that she refused to live a day without – but instead of sitting in the curve of her collar bone, the thick black leather cord had been coiled around her wrist, the small pendant tapping the back of her hand.

“They look beautiful,” Melissa whispered, gently squeezing Chris’ arm and John’s hand.

Small smiles lit the men’s faces.

Allison took to it naturally, flashing her gorgeous pearly white smile and waving to individuals in the crowd as if they were old friends. Stiles, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck. He raised his arm to wave, his hand trembling as he did.

Allison must have sensed the fear that radiated off of Stiles because she glanced at him and offered him a calm smile.

He nodded at her and the crowd erupted in gasps of shock and screams of joy as vibrant flames glittered around him. Golden sparks fluttered through the air.

Melissa let out a delighted gasp, whereas John and Scott watched on with expressions of horror.

But the two didn’t flinch, they stood proud among the flames.

The fire engulfed their bodies and changed the colours of the clothes. Allison’s dress darkened, the orange hem now black, fading to grey as it trailed up to her white corset. Stiles’ suit was completely overcome with black.

They watched on, John’s stomach fluttering with pride – and a bit of fear – as he watched his son parade through the Capitol.

His soft smile widened as Stiles and Allison raised their joined hands high up into the air.

The crowd roared and the cameras turned to them, their carriage – their faces – appearing on every screen around them as the Ceremony was broadcasted live across the country.

The chariots slowed as they reached the City Circle, circling around the open space as they presented to the president, Deucalion, who looked upon them with his usual judgmental gaze and his fake smile.

As the clattering wheels of the chariot pulled to a halt, Stiles and Allison lowered their hands.

Deucalion stepped up to the microphone and spoke. “Hello and welcome to the Opening Ceremony of the 74th Annual Hunger Games!” His voice rang out through the stands and across the Districts. “Let us welcome our tributes.”

The crowd applauded as he called out every district. When he called out “District Twelve”, the crowd roared with cheers and those who were gathered around the televisions in District Twelve joined in. Scott and Isaac joined the applause, even though it wouldn’t be heard. On the other end of the camera, the noise was deafening as it rose like a tidal wave and crashed over them.

Once the president had finished with his formalities, the chariots turned and drove on to the Training Centre.

John sighed when it was all finished and the bright lights of the screen dimmed, but the bright smile on his face didn’t fade as he whispered, “That’s my boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who can't quite envision it, Allison's Opening Ceremony dress is inspired by this (a Hunger Games inspired wedding dress): https://quirkybrideblog.files.wordpress.com/2015/10/hunger-games-inspired-wedding-amanda-douglas-events-2.jpg
> 
> Thank you all for your kudos, comments and encouragement, they really do help :)


	4. Chapter 4

John stirred from his sleep, his weary eyes blinking open to the dull surroundings of his bedroom. He sat upright and ran his hand through his thinning hair. He moved slowly, trying not to disturb Chris.

He crept out of the bedroom and down the hallway. His bare feet slapped the floorboards and he silently cursed himself for the noise, praying no-one woke up because of him.

He stepped into the small kitchen, moving out of habit around the old furniture and over to the sink. He rinsed out a faded blue mug and filled it with water. He sipped at it, ignoring the pain that nagged at the corner of his lip, where the chipped clay bit into the chapped flesh. He ignored the bitter grittiness of the liquid and swallowed down relieving mouthfuls. He refilled the mug again, snarling at the thin layer of dirt and grime that clung to the edges.

John turned towards the crackling fire, noticing the hunched over silhouette that sat before the open fireplace.

John sighed and joined the boy, grunting as he lowered his aching limbs to the cold floorboards and rough clay bricks.

He looked over at Scott’s face, watching the boy’s dark eyes glitter in the flickering light of the golden flames. “What are you doing up so early?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d let Isaac sleep in and make some tea for mum when she got up.” He nodded towards the small cauldron of boiling water and leaves set above the flames. “She’s really shaken up.”

“Of course it was terrifying to hear your name called. I was terrified. I can’t imagine what it was like for her.”

“But I didn’t go,” Scott rasped.

Hot, heavy tears welled up in the boy’s eyes as he stared into the blistering heat of the wavering fire.

“I never realised how much we needed him,” Scott muttered. “I know we all pull our weight but I never realised how much he did for us. All the little things like lighting the fire and warming the house before everyone woke up, getting the water and setting it to boil to get our baths ready and fetching food or making tea. The little things. For each and every one of us. And the worst bit is, I never realised how much _I_ needed him… How much I need my friend.” Scott dropped his head, hiding his falling tears in the shadows that were cast across his almond skin. “I never once told him how much he meant to me.”

“Trust me, he knows… Sometimes we don’t realise how much we love someone until they’re gone,” John whispered, laying his arm around Scott’s broad shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Scott muttered. “I have no right to complain. I’ve still got my mum.”

“You don’t have to compete over who has to right to miss the people we’ve lost. We all miss Stiles. I lost my son. You lost your best friend and your brother,” John explained. “Whether you have your mum or not doesn’t change the fact that you miss him.”

“But you’ve lost Claudia _and_ Stiles.”

“Yes, I lost my wife and Stiles has been taken from me, but I still have you, your mother and Isaac. You two boys might not be my blood but you are my sons.”

Scott dropped his head against the curve of John’s shoulder.

“And until that cannon fires, I refuse to believe that Stiles is lost to me.”

“But you saw those other tributes. They’re gods!”

“There are many legends in which mere mortals have outsmarted or killed gods,” John countered.

“Stiles would never kill. Not even if it came down to him and one other person. He’s not that kind of guy.”

John sighed. Scott was right.

“So, you’ve given up on him?”

“What?” Scott gasped, looking up at the older man, petrified. “No! Never.”

John raised his brow questioningly.

Scott took a second to calm himself and lower his voice to make sure he didn’t wake anyone.

“I want him to survive this, but I just don’t see any way he can win this,” Scott finished.

“How would you describe Stiles?” John asked.

Scott stared at him for a moment as if to determine if it was a serious question or not. “Hyperactive,” Scott answered. “Caring. Sarcastic. A living entity of anxiety. Stubborn.”

“Stubborn?”

“Yeah. You know, stubborn, persistent, unyielding. Like when he fell out of that tree a few years ago. He knocked all the air from his lungs and he laid there on the ground for a few seconds as if it hadn’t registered in his brain yet. Allison and I thought he was dead until he leapt to his feet, dusted himself off and just smiled at us. Or when he got stung by tracker jackers. He got hit with enough venom that it should have killed him, but it didn’t. And when the mines collapsed and killed my dad, he was my rock. He was there for me even though he was just as terrified because you were trapped down there too… He never lets anything get him down. He refuses to be beaten.”

“Say that again,” John instructed.

Scott sighed, realising what he had said. “He never lets anything get him down. He refuses to be beaten.”

“Exactly. We’ve all been through so much, Scott, it’s going to take a lot more than the Games to break Stiles.”

“But what if they do?”

“We can only hope they don’t,” John said calmly.

Scott sighed. “This is going to be hell.”

“Remember what Claudia used to say? ‘If you’re going through hell, keep going’. We’re just going to have to work through one day at a time. We’ll survive this.”

“That’s all we do, isn’t it?” Scott whispered. “It’s all we’ve ever done; survive. We’ve survived drought and famine. We survived every year our names weren’t picked. We survived losing our Claudia and Victoria.”

They fell silent for a moment, lost in their memories.

Stiles’ mother, Claudia, had died when he was ten years old; she was mentally ill – disturbed by night terrors and prone to violent bursts of anger in which she’s turn against those she loved – and they didn’t have the right medical resources for her in District Twelve. Her illness left her thinking that her own son was out to kill her. She would scream at Stiles and hit him, but the boy never fought back: he took the beatings and stood his ground through her tantrums. He took the abuse without ever returning it. He never raised his voice at her, or ever stepped out of line. 

John and Melissa had done everything they could to keep her alive and at peace, but it wasn’t enough.

Stiles had been scared of her, but his love for her never wavered.

John had been called out to help people in the collapsed mines just hours before she died. He raced home to find Stiles by her side, holding her hand.

 Allison’s mother, Victoria, was prone to fits of rage and self-harm. At least once a week Chris brought Victoria in to see Melissa and have her various cuts tended to.

Rumours had spread around Twelve that Chris had been the one who had caused them, but that wasn’t true. However, no-one believed any of them when they spoke up against it. Being from District Two, no-one gave the man a chance.

But they hadn’t seen her the way the kids and Melissa had: completely emotionless and void of expression as she took a knife to her wrists or shattered glasses and plates against walls. She would pull shards of glass and clay from her skin and let thick red droplets of blood shatter against the floorboards.

Victoria had killed herself a few years ago. Chris had held her while she bled out, unable to get her help in time. Allison never got to say goodbye.

They weren’t perfect, but they were their mothers.

“And now they have to survive the Games,” Scott continued. “All we ever do is survive.”

“Then we will survive this,” John replied, her voice firm as if to promise him so. “We just have to stay strong.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Scott admitted.

John thought for a second before he replied, “Find an anchor, something meaningful to you. Something you’d fight for. Keep it in your mind. Let it be your strength.”

Scott’s face twisted in deep thought as he considered it. After a moment, he nodded slightly.

“You don’t have to tell me what it is, just hold onto it,” John instructed.

Scott nodded again.

John gently patted the boy’s back and rose to his feet. He glanced into the small pot that hung over the flickering flames to check that the water was boiling. “If you get the tea finished and the bread on the table, I’ll go and get Isaac and your mum.”

“And Chris?”

“Let him sleep. He’s going to need as much as he can get before the Games begin and the cannons begin to fire. Besides, he doesn’t have to be at work for another two or three hours.”

“Oh, and when you wake Isaac, duck,” Scott warned.

John laughed dryly and took one step towards the hallway when a gut-wrenching scream shattered the air.

He picked up his heels and sprinted through the house, leaping into the boys’ room and pulling the flailing boy into his arms. He held Isaac close, gently shushing him and petting down the mess of unkempt, sleep-tussled curls.

Isaac sobbed violently against John’s chest.

Light footsteps pattered down the hallway as Melissa sprinted into the room, soon followed by Chris.

She sat down on the other side of the child.

John released his hold on Isaac and let the frail boy fall into her arms.

Isaac clawed at fistfuls of her faded blue pyjamas, burying his tear-streaked face into the blouse.

She pressed a tender kiss to the crown of the boy’s head, gently rocking him as John rubbed soothing circles between the boys protruding shoulder blades, his body trembling with violent sobs.

“I want Stiles,” Isaac cried. “I want Stiles.”

John sighed weakly. Never before had he ever felt so helpless and heart broken.


	5. Chapter 5

Scott trudged through the mud and slop, his hands were buried deep in his pockets as Isaac bounded alongside him, purposely leaping into the puddles and splattering the mess across his moderately-clean clothes.

His heart fluttered as the younger boy’s sweet laughter reached his ears, making it so much harder to scold him.

“You know he’s going to die in the first five minutes, right?” A stray voice reached his ears. “I mean, have you seen the guy? Stilinski doesn’t stand a chance.”

Scott turned his eyes to the small group of boys, who laughed carelessly and talked as if the Games didn’t affect them. Scott ignored them, burying his hands deeper into his pockets and marching on.

Isaac must have heard them too, his skip fell short of a puddle and he stopped behind Scott.

Scott halted, turning back to the boy. He noticed how the sapphire depths of Isaac’s eyes sparkled with pain.

“Come on, buddy,” Scott encouraged, reaching back for Isaac’s hand.

“They’re talking about Stiles.”

“I know,” Scott whispered.

“They’re being mean,” Isaac whimpered.

“Yeah, and they’re wrong. Now, come on, we have to get the stuff for Mum.”

“Okay,” Isaac muttered in defeat, dragging his feet around the puddle as he made his way over to Scott’s side.

“Hey, McCall,” Ethan’s voice rang across the open space. “Hey! Don’t ignore me.”

“He’s talking to you,” Isaac whispered, startled by the threatening howl of the older boy’s voice.

“I know, just ignore him,” Scott instructed, picking up the pace and leading Isaac towards the marketplace.

“McCall, don’t fucking ignore me,” Ethan called again.

Aiden grabbed Scott’s shoulder and spun him around.

“What?” Scott growled.

“How much of a coward are you? You just stood there and let that wimpy, pathetic excuse of a human being you call your friend take your place,” Aiden growled.

Scott turned. “Come on, Isaac. Let’s go.”

“What’s wrong, McCall? Going to tuck your tail between your legs and run?”

The twins and their friends burst into roaring laughter, one of them squealing like a hyena.

“You know they’re not going to survive, right? Stiles and your little girlfriend. And when they die – and they will – it’ll be your fault, because you didn’t have the balls to accept that it was your name that was called.”

“If that’s the case, why didn’t you volunteer?” Scott countered, clenching his fist.

Isaac tugged at Scott’s sleeve, sensing the rising tension as he tried to drag the older boy away. “Scott, we have to go.”

Aiden stepped closer to Scott, towering over him by an inch, but it was just enough to make Isaac cower behind Scott.

“Maybe I will next year, but for now, I’m going to sit back and laugh as I watch your little _friend_ get torn to shreds.”

Scott growled and slammed his fist into the boy’s jaw.

Aiden hit the ground with a solid thud and a muffled whimper. He lifted his hand to the corner of his mouth, noticing the stream of blood that dripped from his lip.

“You’re dead, McCall,” Ethan howled and hurled himself at the boy.

Scott grabbed him by the front of his pale shirt and hurled him back across the muddy street.

Aiden was back on his feet. He lunged forward and tackled Scott to the ground.

Isaac bounced into action and shoved Aiden off Scott. Scott leapt to his knees and pinned Aiden to the ground, swinging his fists in a frantic flurry as he pummelled the larger boy into the ground.

Isaac yelped and Scott turned. His eyes fell upon the boy, curled up on the ground and cradling his head. Streams of crimson blood flowed from between his fingers.

Ethan towered over him, a chunk of splintering wood in his tight grasp. His broad shoulders rose and fell with rugged breaths as he lifted the plank high above his head and readied himself for another swing.

“Isaac!” Scott screamed, leaping to his feet and sprinting to the boy’s side. He rammed his shoulder into Ethan’s side.

Ethan hit the ground, groaning and gasping for air.

Scott braced himself on his hands and knees, turning his worried eyes to Isaac.

“Run,” he shouted to Isaac.

The boy seemed too scared to move, his bright blue eyes were more vibrant than ever as he wiped streaks of mud and tears from his pale cheeks.

“Isaac!” Scott barked, snapping the boy out of his daze. “Go!”

Isaac flailed about as he sprinted down the muddy track and back towards the houses.

Scott glanced about, checking that no-one was around to see.

The twins’ friends had vanished and Aiden was lying still among the ripples of sludge, his face disfigured and stained with his blood.

Scott steadied himself, dodging Ethan’s fist and returning the gesture with a solid uppercut to his jaw, knocking him back.

Aiden leapt forward and grabbed a hold of Scott, pulling him into a full Nelson hold.

Scott trashed about in the teen’s hold, watching as Ethan snarled as he rose to his feet.

Ethan stumbled forward. He balled his fist and slammed it into Scott’s gut, over and over.

Sparking lights and flashing colours stung at Scott’s eyes as he grunted and took the beating.

 _This is my punishment_ , he told himself. _This is what I get for letting Stiles take my place. I should have gone, not him. This is my penance_.

Scott bowed his head, slumping in Aiden’s hold as the boy’s twin relentlessly pummelled Scott. Aiden dropped Scott into the mud, laughing as his twin straddled the boy and continued the brutal violence. Ethan landed punch after punch, snarling viciously like a fierce wolf who had pinned down their prey for the kill.

Scott’s body was numb and the sounds of the world around him was dulled to a constant thudding, replacing Ethan’s punches with the sound of his own heartbeat.

Somewhere in the distance Scott could hear heavy footsteps pounded the earth. A deep voice shattered the air.

“Enough!”

The boys stilled.

John’s cold glare was narrowed on the boys.

Scott returned to his senses. He swallowed hard, the tension scratching at his dry throat.

“Scott,” John started, his voice low and level. John was terrifying when he was like that. Scott had been around him long enough – and seen Stiles get in trouble enough times – to know that there was a storm brewing beneath the grey shadows in John’s eyes, ready to erupt if prompted. “Go home.”

Scott glared at Ethan, ready to start another round of their brawl regardless of John’s presence.

“Now!” John howled.

Scott sighed, burying his bloodied fists in his pockets and hanging his head as he marched off homewards.

 

John barged through the front door, casting his cold glare towards Melissa – who sat at the table, cleaning and dressing the deep gash in Isaac’s forehead.

“Where’s Scott?” he asked through a tightened jaw.

“In his room,” she replied. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain later,” John grumbled, his heavy footsteps echoing ominously throughout the house. “Scott!”

His voice rang throughout the hollow house as he stormed into the boys’ room.

Scott sat on the edge of his bed, staring into oblivion. Patches of blue and purple were already blooming on his skin, tainting the olive flesh. His lip was swollen and split, a stream of blood trickling down his chin. The rags he called his clothes were caked in mud and blood. His firm jaw set in a straight line as he waited for the lecture.

“You can consider yourself damn lucky that Isaac came to me and I found you before the peacekeepers did,” John growled.

“I’m sorry,” Scott rasped.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“They said Stiles didn’t stand a chance. I got angry.”

“You know better.”

Scott bowed his head. “I know. But they started it and then Ethan hit Isaac and I lost it… I just…”

His voice broke as tears welled up in his eyes. His split lip began to tremble as he fought back his tears.

“You told me to protect my anchor, and that’s what I was doing,” Scott cried. “I was protecting my brothers: Stiles and Isaac. They’re my anchor.”

John drew in a deep sigh and settled down on the edge of the mattress next to Scott. When he spoke again, his voice was low and calm. “Scott, you and I know that Stiles is going to do everything in his power to survive the Games. Don’t listen to what anyone else has to say about him.” He looked down at his calloused hands before turning his softening gaze to the boy. “Starting a brawl in District Twelve isn’t going to help him in the Capitol or in the Games.”

“I know,” Scott muttered weakly.

“I mean, what would Stiles think if he saw that?”

“I just wanted to defend him.”

“He doesn’t need defending,” John replied.

“Isaac does,” Scott argued.

“He wouldn’t need to be protected if you hadn’t started the fight,” John pointed out.

Through the abyss of inky black shadows in the lightless bedroom, John could see the flash of pain and guilt that washed through Scott’s chocolate-brown irises.

“It’s not your fault he’s gone,” John reassured him. “Stiles volunteered and he would have done it a million times over. There’s nothing you could have possibly done to stop him. It takes strength to do what he did – but in no way does that mean that you are weak for letting him volunteer.”

“I just want others to know how strong he is,” Scott whispered, sparkling tears shattering across the back of his hands, clearing away patches of mud and flaking dirt.

“Then let him defend himself like you know he can. Let him prove them wrong.”

Before Scott had the chance to apologise again, the compulsory broadcast began. The Capitol anthem rang throughout the District.

John patted the boy’s shoulder and rose to his feet. Scott followed him out into the living room where Isaac and Melissa were huddled together on the couch – the young boy’s cheeks still glistening with tears. Chris had returned from the mines, streaked in black coal and ash, and stood back from the couch to watch.

The presenter went about their usual spiel of terrible humour and reviewing the tributes – the Reaping, the outfits from the Opening Ceremonies, comments about their Districts, blah blah blah - before finally getting to business and reading out the assessment scores.

Ennis and Kali from District One had both scored 10, which was an exceptionally high score and one expected of Careers. District Two’s tributes – Kate and Derek – had scored 9s – again, expected of a Career, but high enough for Kate to earn a proud smile from her brother. Jackson Whittemore from District Three scored a 7.

“What can he do?” Isaac asked, his voice was a little slurred and his mind was a little disorientated from the blow to his head.

“He’s a big guy, he probably stared at them,” Scott remarked.

“Brute strength and intimidation are usually good in the Games,” Chris chimed in, his husky voice drawing everyone’s attention. “But they don’t convince the Gamemakers of your ability to survive, which would leave you with a low score. Besides, a score meant nothing. Things change when you’re in the arena. When your life is on the line, a tribute who had scored a 3 could murder a high scoring tribute without and hesitation or trouble. Sometimes the high scoring tributes crack under pressure and sometimes the tributes who had scored the lowest are underestimated in the Games and come out victorious.”

“Remember Peter?” John added. “He scored a five or something, but he’s still alive.”

Isaac didn’t seem to be taking anything in.

Scott sat next to him and gave him a gentle nudge. “What do you think Allison will score?”

“Allison’s not scoring tonight,” Isaac muttered, earning a shove from Scott. When he settled from his fit of giggles he replied, “Nine – no – nine hundred and ninety-nine.”

“And Stile

“One hundred percent – no-one can beat him,” Isaac murmured, curling into the warmth of Melissa’s arms.

John smiled at the boys.

The sweet little girl from District Five, Kira, scored a 7 too. Other tributes scored 5s and 6s, with the occasional tribute scoring 3 or an 8.

Finally it was District Twelve’s turn.

Stiles’ photo flashed up on the screen.

Scott and Isaac sat upright in their seats.

They nearly fell off the chair when his score came up.

“Ten?” Scott gasped.

“What the hell did he do?” Chris mused.

John exhaled heavily. “He did _something_ and I don’t think it was asking ‘please’.”

He leant forward over the back of the couch and tapped Scott’s shoulder.

“I told you he’d prove them wrong,” he whispered before straightening his back.

Allison’s photo flashed across the screen.

9.

“He did better than Allison?” John asked, not sure he was reading it right. He looked at Chris in confusion.

Chris shrugged. “Guess we’ll have to wait to find out what they did.”

“The interviews are tomorrow right?” Scott asked, glancing over the back of the couch to the men.

“Yeah,” Chris confirmed. “That’s going to be interesting.”

“I get to see Stiles again?” Isaac piped up.

“Tomorrow, kiddo,” John promised.

The broadcast ended and Melissa ordered the boys to set the table for dinner.

When they were out of earshot she turned to Chris and John.

“A high score means a target on their backs,” she whispered.

“They’ll be okay,” Chris assured her. “Allison knows what she’s doing and there’s no way she’s leaving Stiles alone in that arena.”

“But what about Stiles?” Melissa asked, turning her fear-filled brown eyes to John. “If they get separated…”

“He’ll survive,” John assured her. “That’s what District Twelve is best at: surviving.”


	6. Chapter 6

The broadcast was full of colours and beaming faces as the tributes walked across the stage in extravagant outfits, showing off their designer’s clothes and putting on personalities that they hoped would earn them sponsors.

The tributes from District One put on their best tough-guy acts, although they may not have been acting, judging by their lifeless eyes and vicious snarl-like smirks.

When they left the stage and the next tribute was welcomed onstage, the house fell silent, letting Chris listen to his sister’s interview.

Unlike the Opening Ceremony, the designers hadn’t dressed the tributes up in clothes that reflected their Districts.

Instead, Kate wore a stunning ocean blue dress, the rippling fabric gathering around her legs and shaped by a thin belt of fabric around her ribs. Thick straps sat atop her narrow shoulders, the dark blue fabric dipped down across her pale collarbone in the shape of a V. It was a simple dress, not decorated by obnoxiously extravagant patterns or glittering gems and untameable ruffles, but the way she wore it made it look stunning.

The thin diamond-studded bracelet and matching earrings stood out vibrantly against her glowing pale skin.

The golden waves of her hair were coiled into a bun, a few loose strands framing the curves of her face.

Her interview went swiftly, her bright smile and glittering blue eyes winning over the hearts of many.

Chris’ weary old face lit up with a proud smile as he listened to his sister’s voice, watching her smile and laugh, even if it was just an act.

The interviews after that went rather quickly, each tribute presented themselves in a certain way: tough and intimidating, sweet and innocent, friendly, humorous, or just a lovable face.

Finally, it was District Twelve’s turn.

Scott shuffled forward on the couch.

The interviewer, Danny Māhealani, introduced her, his smile was wide and beaming as he gestured across the stage.

His ears rang with the surround-sound effect of the crowd’s roaring applause as Allison stepped out onto the stage, smiling and waving.

She tottered across the well-lit stage in a pair of high heels. The rippling hem of her gown sat just high enough off the ground that he could see the black heels. The cuff of the heels decorated with half a dozen strings of golden beads and the soles flashed red as she took slow and cautious steps.

Her skin seemed to glow against the inky black fabric of her dress. The thick straps sat just off her slender shoulders, the fabric running in a stream that dipped down into her chest and framed her pendant. She wore a second necklace, one made of roughly cut glittering onyx beads. A thick sash was wound around her ribs and the mesh skirt rippled and billowed out form her hips. Her hair was loose, rippling down over her shoulders and framing her face. A thin ring of black eyeliner framed her dark eyes and a light sprinkle of gold eyeshadow dusted her eyelids, matching the gold tinted lipstick that lined her plump lips, the corners tilted up in a sweet smile. It wasn’t much; she didn’t need much make up, otherwise it would cover up her natural beauty.

Chris let out a soft sigh of relief, he was glad that they hadn’t turned his daughter into some gaudy doll that would match the Capitol’s sense of ‘beauty’.

“She’s so pretty,” Isaac whispered.

“Allison, you look gorgeous,” Danny complemented, gesturing at her dress and waiting for another round of applause to die down.

Allison smiled, a soft blush colouring her cheeks as she replied, “And you look very handsome.”

Danny pressed his hand to his chest and pretended to fan away tears of joy. He gestured for Allison to take a seat.

“Now, dear, dear Allison, how are you enjoying the Capitol?” Danny asked, sitting forward in his chair as if he were genuinely interested in her answer.

“It is very different from what I’m used to. It’s a lot cleaner and there are a lot more lights.”

Danny chucked. “Now that we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way, let’s get down to the real questions. How did it feel when your name was called?”

“Not as terrifying as I had thought,” Allison answered honestly. “Don’t get me wrong, I was scared, but not as much as when Scott’s name was called.”

“Tell me about it,” Danny prompted.

“I love Scott, and the last thing I would ever want to do is go into the arena with him.”

Her response seemed to shatter everyone’s hearts. Members of the audience wiped away tears and let out sounds of pity.

Allison continued, “It still hurts to know that I’m heading into the arena with one of my best friends, but at least I know that Scott, my father and our families are safe back home in District Twelve.”

The quiet of the crowd was shattered with a roaring applause.

Scott slumped back against the wooden frame of the couch, his heart sinking into his stomach.

“Do you know what you have to do?” Danny asked. “You have to win the Games, go back home to District Twelve, and tell Scott exactly how you feel.”

Allison didn’t reply.

Deep down, they all knew that she couldn’t promise that she would. They all knew there was a chance that she wouldn’t make it out of this alive.

Her radiant smile returned and she turned her glittering eyes to the camera. “He already knows.”

After that her interview went smoothly. She answered every question Danny asked her honestly and without hesitation or flaw. Her radiant smile didn’t falter for a second. Danny asked her questions about her father, her life in District Twelve, and her high training score before he finally turned to the topic of the Opening Ceremony, the audience cheering at the mention of her beautiful gowns – then and now.

“My father always said I had a spark in me,” Allison said, her smile lifting her rosy cheeks and pearly white teeth flashing in a radiant smile. Chris couldn’t help but smirk. “I brought it tonight. Would you like to see?”

“Oh, yes please!” Danny chirped, turning to the audience. “What do you say?”

The crowd cheered so loudly that it threatened to burst the speakers.

Allison rose to her feet and stepped forward on the stage. She began to spin, the dark fabric of her dress sparking and flaming as a brilliant blaze consumed the frills, surrounding her like a vibrant aura. Tendrils of orange flames lapped at her skirt, crawling up the front of her dress until they reached the thick black corset where they dissolved into a brilliant shower of sparks that glittered around her.

She slowed to a stop, trying to maintain both her balance and her composure as the thin heels of her shoes threatened to give way.

The flames simmered down, revealing the change the fire had caused. The thin black ruffles of mesh had bled beige, streaming from the centre of her waist and spilling down at the hem.

Melissa gasped, lost for words.

“Pretty,” Isaac whispered.

Allison giggled as Danny hurried to her side to catch her before she fell.

He thanked her and helped her down offstage before welcoming onto stage his next and final ‘guest’. “He’s the selfless sweetheart from District Twelve who stole our hearts. Please welcome to the stage, the final tribute of the night, Stiles Stilinski.”

“It’s Stiles!” Isaac squealed with joy, bolting upright in his seat.

The crowd erupted in cheers as Stiles stepped through the doors and out onto the brightly lit stage.

His designer – Deaton – hadn’t dolled him up like other designers had or put him in an extravagant suit like the one he wore for the Opening Ceremony. Instead, he wore a dark grey dress shirt buttoned up to his sternum, leaving the collar hanging open. The hem of his shirt was baggy and rippled over a pair of casual jeans, the dark denim fitting his slim legs and making them seem appealing rather than scrawny. The simplistic outfit was contradicted but completed by a pair of glossy black dress shoes and a matching the thin black jacket, lined with a bright red fabric that flashed every now and then when Stiles moved. A thin trail of gold beads ran along the edges of his jacket’s lapels and around the cuffs, breaking the solid black fabric. His hair was left as is, the ruffled chestnut mess adding to the casual look.

Melissa reached over the back of the couch and gently squeezed John’s arm. The old man beamed with pride.

“He looks so handsome,” Melissa said proudly.

He waved at the audience much like Allison had. But his confidence faltered for a moment as the cold lifeless camera lenses honed in on him.

“Come on, kiddo,” John whispered low enough that no-one else could hear him. “You can do it.”

Stiles forced a smile – they could tell it wasn’t genuine – and acted as if everything was okay. He stopped on the far side of the stage and span about on the spot, the crimson underlining of his coat flashing but not igniting. Stopping, he looked up to Danny who seemed rather disappointed at the lack of flames. Stiles shrugged, shook the man’s extended hand, and waited for the roaring applause to die down before they began their interview.

“No fire today?” Danny asked.

“No, Allison’s the fiery one,” he replied smiling at his friend who sat among the other tributes in the audience.

“Well I’m sure we can all say that you have quite a spark in you, am I right?” Danny asked, turning to the audience to elicit a response from them. The crowd cheered. “The Opening Ceremony,” Danny encouraged, the applause growing louder. “Scoring a ten in the Gamemaker’s Assessment.” The crowd erupted again. “And when you so bravely volunteered. I have to ask - - because we’ve all been dying to know - - why did you volunteer?”

Stiles’ smile faded. Obviously, he had not been ready for this question.

The house fell silent.

None of them were ready for that question either.

“Because Scott is my best friend,” Stiles rasped. “He’s… my brother. We’ve been through everything together and I wasn’t going to stand by and watch as he were dragged away from the people who needed him, the people who love him and told to fight to the death against the girl he loves.”

“You’re referring to Allison?”

“Yes,” Stiles whispered. The cameras turned to Allison, catching the glimmer of pain in her eyes. The brewing tears in their eyes was a dead giveaway that they were not ready for this.

John reached forward and rested his hand on Scott’s shoulder, feeling the boy tremble as he held back tears.

“She’s one of my best friends,” Stiles continued. “I was heart-broken when I heard her name called at the Reaping and I don’t want to face her in the arena… I realise how much this hurts my father and Scott, but I couldn’t just stand there and watch.”

“You’re a brave young man,” Danny said solemnly.

Stiles chuckled breathlessly, his eyes sparkling with humour. “No, I’m not brave. Brash, maybe, and stubborn but I’m not brave. But at least there’s one thing that living in District Twelve has taught me.”

“And what’s that?” Danny asked, turning his head to the audience with an over-exaggerated inquisitive expression.

Stiles glanced down at Allison and smiled softly, knowingly as he replied, “I learnt how to survive.”

The interviews ended after that and Scott left the room in a hurry. John followed after him, watching as the boy collapsed onto his bed and buried his face in the sheets.

Scott tried to muffle his sobs, not wanting to alert anyone. His shoulders trembled as his tears seeped into his pillow.

John sighed and stepped into the room. He sat down on the edge of the bed.

Scott peered out from beneath the covers, sniffing back his sobs. He did his best to pretend it wasn’t hurting him, but John knew better.

John patted the mattress beside him.

Scott sniffed again as he sat upright. He crept forward and sat next to the man.

John pulled the boy into his arms, feeling him weaken and hot tears soak though his shirt.

“They did good,” John assured him.

“Only one of them comes out,” Scott murmured.

Those words hit him hard.

John gently patted the boy’s unkempt hair and whispered, “Let’s just hope it’s one of ours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kate’s interview dress is inspired by:  
> http://www.4bridesmaids.com.au/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/744x1200/5e06319eda06f020e43594a9c230972d/b/d/bd745-01/ocean-blue-chiffon-sheath_column-v-neck-floor-length-bridesmaid-dresses(bd745).jpg
> 
> Allison's interview dress is inspired by:  
> http://www.deerpearlflowers.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/Vera-Wang-Black-Tulle-Wedding-Gown.jpg  
> https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/b8/1b/7b/b81b7bd4dc71c451d86915963b5b2c01.jpg


	7. Chapter 7

Today was the day.

District Twelve was silent.

No-one dared to speak.

The screen flashed with the faces of the twenty-four tributes.

Every tribute wore the same thing. They each wore a black shirt made of thick woven fabric that had a white panel running across the shoulders and the sleeve printed with their District number, a pair of khaki pants were wrapped around their legs – the cuffs sat over the thick black leather boots which were clamped onto their feet – and on of that was a thin black waterproof jacket that rustled and crinkled as the tributes readied themselves.

60 seconds. They had to wait that long.

The tributes were positioned around the cornucopia, bracing themselves to run, not willing to step off the podium until the time was up. And that was the best decision they’d ever made, especially considering explosive mines were buried around the podiums, set to disarm after the timer was finished in order to prevent tributes from cheating and stepping off the podiums before the Games began.

40 seconds.

The camera focused on Stiles.

They could see the fear in his face.

“Run, Stiles,” Scott whispered, eyes focused on the screen. “Run.”

“The arena is a forest by the looks of it,” Chris muttered. “The trees are climbable and the foliage is dense enough for them to hide. It’s somewhat familiar to them, thank God.”

30 seconds.

The camera panned across the arena, focusing on Allison. Her dark hair had been braided and laid across his shoulder. She was looking across the arena, most likely to Stiles. She mothed ‘run for the trees’ before her bright eyes flicked back to the spoils of the cornucopia.

“No,” Scott gasped.

“She wouldn’t,” Chris whispered.

“She would,” John countered. “Their lives are on the line, she’s looking for the one thing she can use to defend herself and Stiles.”

“A bow,” Scott whispered.

Chris shook his head. “She wouldn’t risk it.”

“She would,” John repeated. “And it looks like she’s going to.”

Chris looked like he was about to argue, but his blue eyes focused on his daughter’s face. He knew Allison had made her decision.

20 seconds.

The tributes were getting ready to run.

The Careers were doubled over, fingers braced on the edge of their podiums, ready to sprint forward the second the timer stopped. A few of the other tributes were brave enough to risk it, with one or two being smart enough to angle their feet away and brace themselves to run into the shadows beyond the tree line.

Allison glanced up at Stiles again, ignoring him as he shook his head. She turned her attention to the bow, eyes fixed on the gleaming silver metal as the timer ticked down.

10 seconds.

“Please, no,” Scott whispered to himself.

Isaac turned into John’s arms, burying his face in the curve of the man’s shoulder.

John would his arms around the boy, feeling all strength drain from his body as his blood ran cold.

They held their breaths.

5.

4.

3.

2.

1.

Begin.

The world fell silent as tributes ran forward into the cornucopia. Heavy boots thumped against the ground, upturning tufts of thick green grass. Rugged breaths fell from parted lips.

Flashing images passed across the screen before the cameras zoomed out.

A couple of tributes were taken out instantly; knocked to the ground by thrown punches and trampled by others or necks snapped by brute strength, the sound of breaking bones ringing through the speakers.

Allison disappeared among the mass of flurrying limbs.

The cornucopia became a slaughter house: children were impaled and torn to shreds by other children, limp, bloody bodies tossed aside as tributes greedily snatched bags, food and weapons.

Stiles was frozen.

“Run, Stiles,” Scott pleaded.

Melissa reached across the couch, grabbing John’s hand and squeezing it.

John’s heart thumped painfully against his ribs, blood pounding in his ears.

He wanted to scream at the boy and tell him to run, but it would be useless.

A tribute ran towards Stiles, wielding a sword and screaming like a beast. He was halted midway, small droplets of bright red blood dripping from his mouth. The camera focused in on the barbed end of a javelin that was protruding from the boy’s chest. The boy’s limbs jerked as the killer pulled the weapon free of his corpse.

The towering figure of a Career – Ennis – trudged towards him, his grip tightened on the javelin and his face set in a snarl as he growled viciously, cold eyes locked on his next target: Stiles.

Scott was out of breath, his hands trembling with fear. Melissa’s grip tightened on John’s hand and he gave it a gentle squeeze, trying hard to keep his breathing steady.

He couldn’t watch.

He closed his eyes and buried his face in the mess of Isaac’s curls, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of the boy’s head. Isaac whimpered and buried his face into John’s shirt.

A dark figure – the boy from District Eleven – leapt at Ennis and tackled him, knocking him to the ground, quickly followed by a young blonde girl, the tribute from District Three: Erica. The two tried their hardest to keep the Career pinned against the earth. They pummelled him with balled fists and fought back against his vicious thrashing.

Melissa held her breath as another Career ran towards at Stiles.

The room let out a collective sound of surprise as the older boy gently shoved Stiles’ chest and ordered him about.

The sounds of snarls and screams of the other tributes muffled Derek’s words.

The older boy shoved a bag into Stiles’ hands and gently pushed at his chest again. He seemed to be bellowing over the pained screams, savage howls and gargled cries that echoed through the space.

Stiles flailed about, stumbling backwards. His feet hit the ground. He used a hand to steady himself, leaping to his feet and tearing into the darkness beyond the trees.

“He’s safe,” Melissa whispered.

“Where’s Allison?” Scott rasped, fear straining his voice.

That camera was focused on Derek for a moment as he watched Stiles disappear into the shadows and turned back towards the cornucopia.

Ennis broke free of Erica and Boyd’s hold. He grabbed Erica’s head and snapped her neck in one swift movement.

Melissa let out a shocked cry, clasping her hand over her mouth.

Boyd leapt out of the way and drew out a hunting knife, readying himself to fight.

But compared to Ennis he stood no chance. The Career was enraged, shoulders heaving with heavy breaths as he growled at the boy.

Ennis overpowered Boyd, using the small knife that he wielded to tear open the boy’s throat.

“Boyd!” Derek cried, sprinting over to the boy’s side.

Boyd let out a small gargling sound as his body jerked about. He collapsed to the ground, a pool of crimson blood staining the grass around him.

“Derek,” a familiar voice called across the dying roar of the slaughter.

Allison tossed him an axe.

Derek snatched it out of the air, spinning it about in his grip as he readied himself and lunged into battle with the Career.

Ennis charged at him, hitting him with enough force to knock the axe from his grip and tackle him to the ground.

Derek thrashed about in his hold, smacking his head against the larger boy’s face.

Allison notched her bow and let an arrow fly. The tip burrowed into Ennis’ arm, making him cry out in pain.

Ennis rose to his feet, glaring at Allison. He tore the arrow out of his arm and let out an animalistic roar before sprinting into the dense forest and weaving his way through the labyrinth of thick tree trunks.

In the moment of peace Scott found his voice and asked, “Why is she helping him?”

“He helped Stiles,” Chris said, also a little surprised.

“Maybe they made an alliance?” Melissa offered.

John ignored them, watching as Derek rose to his feet and collected his axe and the discarded arrow. He grabbed a bag of supplies and ran to Allison’s side. He rested his hand against her back and guided her towards the forest. They sprinted away from the massacre, ducking and weaving through attacking tributes and fallen bodies.

When they reached the tree line, Derek cast one last pained look over his shoulder at the bodies of his fallen allies.

Allison turned and grabbed his arm.

“We have to go,” she encouraged.

Derek nodded and followed her.

They sprung over the fallen trees, broken branches and thick shrubs, nimble legs carrying them through the undergrowth and projecting them over the large logs.

“They’re alive,” Scott gasped in relief.

Melissa pulled her son into her arms.

“They’re really okay?” Isaac muttered, peering out from the shadows of John’s shirt.

Chris reached over the back of the couch, resting his hand on Isaac’s shoulder.

“They’re okay,” he assured the young boy.

Isaac’s face lit up with a soft smile, his eyes glittering with joy. But it soon failed as he cried at the sound of the cannons firing, each boom making the small boy jolt and cower in John’s arms. He let out a broken whimper and cupped his hands over his ears.

The delayed count of the number of tributes that were killed in the opening bloodshed had begun.

John counted them, one by one, not sure whether he felt relief or remorse for those that had been slaughtered.

“Nine,” he muttered.

“Fifteen left,” Scott whispered. “And Stiles and Allison are among them.”

“They’ve wiped out half the competition already,” Chris muttered.

The cameras focused on Stiles, standing still among the thick trunks of the trees. His boot struck an upturned root and his feet fell from beneath him. He toppled down an embankment, rolling down the cold earth until he came to a stop, face pressed against the cool dirt.

He quickly regained himself, bracing himself against his hands. He sat upright and listened, hearing the rustle of leaves and snapping twigs.

He froze.

Stiles leapt to his feet and sprinted to a nearby pine tree, ungracefully hurling himself up into the branches and climbing into the camouflage of the thick foliage.

The female tribute form District Eleven, Braeden, and the young girl from District Five sprinted through the undergrowth below him, skiing down the embankment and stumbling forward.

Braeden hit the ground, the gleaming pole of a javelin rammed between her shoulder blades.

Melissa let out a shocked squeal.

Braeden’s limbs twitched as her life drained away from her.

The girl from District Five, Kira, collapsed to the ground, scurrying backwards on her hands. Her face was stained with horror and streaked with tears. She screamed as Ennis stalked through the forest towards her. Blood was smeared across his face and his clothes were torn in patches from his previous fights.

A thundering clap flooded the video as a cannon fired.

Isaac squealed and clapped his hands over his ears. He kicked about and shrunk into John’s hold.

John gently cupped the back of the boy’s head and cradled him into his chest, shielding him from the horrors of the broadcast.

Melissa clapped her hand over her mouth as Ennis closed the gap between him and the small, defenceless girl.

“Stiles will be okay, right?” Scott asked, voice strained with fear. “He just has to stay in the tree.”

“When has Stiles ever stayed where he was meant to when someone’s in trouble?” Chris challenged. “When has Stiles ever stayed where he’s meant to, period,” Chris corrected himself.

Scott sighed. Chris was right.

Stiles shifted on the branch, bracing himself. He leapt from the bough and dropped to Ennis’s shoulders, knocking the man to the ground.

Stiles scurried to his feet.

“Run,” he screamed at Kira, snatching up the small girl’s hand and dragging her to her feet. They sprinted into the dense foliage. He vaulted over a fallen log, reaching back to lift Kira over.

She seemed a little confused and scared, her limbs slowed by fear but following him nonetheless.

Ennis was stunned, growling as he rose to his feet. He howled, tearing the javelin from Braeden’s corpse and racing after them.

“Run, Stiles!” Isaac screamed at the television.

Stiles led Kira into a cluster of trees, weaving their way through trunks before stopping before a thick pine tree. He crouched before her, levelling his eyes with hers. He quickly instructed her to climb into the tree and hide. She nodded and panted rugged breaths as wet trails of glistening tears streaked her cheeks.

Stiles lifted her onto one of the lower hanging branches, watching for a second as she began to scurry up through the branches.

“Stay safe,” he whispered.

John felt his stomach twist with a strange mix of fear, shock and pride as he watched his son turn and sprint through the labyrinth of bleached birch trees and dark pine trees.

“I’m going to kill you!” Ennis howled, livid with rage as he chased Stiles through the shadows.

Isaac whimpered, burying his face back into John’s shirt.

Scott shuffled closer to his mum, curling against her side. Melissa wrapped her arms around him, still holding onto John’s hand. Chris reached forward and rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

They watched as Stiles dove behind a tree, pushing his back up against the rough bark of a dull grey pine.

Ennis’s heavy footsteps thumped against the ground, drawing closer and closer.

They fell still, a disturbing blanket silence settling over the forest.

Melissa swallowed hard, her grip tightening on John’s hand as tears of fear pricked her eyes.

John pulled Isaac closer, cradling his head and pressing kisses to the top of his head.

Ennis glared at the shadows. He growled like a predator, heavy shoulders rising and falling with rugged breaths.

“I’ll find you, Twelve!” Ennis howled like a behemoth, his voice aimlessly directed towards the inky black shadows. Birds screeched and flew away in fear. “And when I do, I’m going to take pleasure in tearing you limb from limb.”

Isaac began to cry, tears soaking through the worn cotton of John’s shirt.

John shushed him, gently rocking the boy.

“Stiles will be okay,” he whispered. “He’s going to be okay. He’s too fast and too smart. The big mean Career can’t get him.”

Melissa relinquished her hold on John’s hand, pulling Scott close as John lifted Isaac into his lap, cradling his boy.

He wasn’t sure whether he was reassuring himself or Isaac, but he said the words over and over again: “Stiles will be okay.”


	8. Chapter 8

The broadcast was painfully long.

The light was dwindling in the arena and twilight was seeping in, dulling the screen as the Gamemakers prepared to shift into night vision mode.

Isaac had fallen asleep in John’s arms a while ago, but every time he moved slightly the boy stirred. Whenever John, Melissa or Scott tried to get him to go to bed or moved him to carry him there, Isaac would scream and carry on about how he wanted to stay and watch, only to fall back asleep again minutes later.

Scott had curled up with his mum, his dreary eyes were still focused on the screen as he leant against her side.

Chris stayed behind them, wandering back and forth between the back of the couch and the kitchen, bringing everyone drinks and blankets.

They all watched as the tributes settled down for the night, they resting among the thick branches of the trees, huddling around crackling campfires, or cowering in damp caves along the riverside.

The quiet was disturbed as the podcast was replaced by the glowing Capitol emblem, the anthem blaring. John tried to cover Isaac’s ears quickly so the loud music wouldn’t disturb the boy.

A series of photos flashed across the screen: the fallen tributes.

First was the portrait of the girl from District Three – Erica, the blonde who had attacked Ennis and saved Stiles. He just found it so strange that he felt gratitude towards a girl he had never met. The girl from District Four – Malia, who had stood on the podium beside Stiles’ and braced herself to run straight into the forest. ‘District 6’ and ‘District 8’ had lost both tributes. The faces of the girl from District Nine and the boy from District Ten – the one Ennis had impaled when he charged at Stiles – passed across the screen. Next was the boy from District Eleven – the older boy with dark skin who had tackled Ennis and saved Stiles’ life, Boyd – and his fellow tribute, Braeden, who had been trying to keep Kira safe.

“Allison and Stiles are alive,” Chris announced, reassuring everyone else in the room that they hadn’t somehow repressed any additional info.

A painful cry interrupted him, shattering the quiet.

The live feed of the broadcasted Games returned to full screen, now black and green as the cameras turned to night vision.

The camera focused on Stiles as he leapt from the branches and sprinted towards the cry. They panned across the arena ahead of the boy, focusing on the two figures among the darkness. Jackson Whittemore, the boy from District Three, looked barely human under the night vision filter. His fluorescent eyes pierced the darkness as he sprinted away from the young girl that collapsed to the ground.

Another tribute, Stiles, ran to the fallen tribute’s side, dropping to his knees and lifting the girl into his lap. He held her close, whispering to her.

His hands quivered as his fingers brushed against the small dart protruding from her upper arm. He pulled it out of her flesh and sniffed at the dampened tip.

“Aconite,” Stiles gasped. “Wolfsbane.”

“No,” Chris gasped.

“What?” John asked, his voice hushed.

“Wolfsbane. It’s lethal in any concentration,” Chris explained. “It induces vomiting, a burning sensation, and a numbness that spreads through the body until finally the organs give out and the person dies. A high enough concentration will kill within minutes.”

“I’m going to die,” Kira whimpered.

The camera focused on them.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered, tears brimming in his eyes. “I can’t help you. I can’t save you.”

“Can you stay with me?” she pleaded. “I’m scared.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to stay right here.”

She tried to thank him, but her words were cut off when she coughed and spluttered, spewing blood and bile onto the forest floor.

It had begun.

“It burns,” she cried.

“It’s okay. It won’t hurt for long,” he promised.

“Look,” he whispered, pointing up at the sky. “Look at the stars. Aren’t they pretty?”

Kira sniffed, her body trembling as she turned her gaze up to the sky.

“My mum always told me that when people die, their soul becomes a star in the sky,” Stiles muttered.

John’s heart skipped a beat.

The camera zoomed in on the girl’s face. They watched the glistening crystal-like tears caress Kira’s smooth cheeks.

Stiles gently brushed back the loose strands of Kira’s dark hair. She began to shake violently and Stiles tried to hold his composure, speaking softly to her. “Yours will shine the brightest. And I will always remember you. I promise.”

Her dark eyes glassy and were misted as she looked at him, weakly rasping, “Thank you… I hope… you… win.”

The next thing they heard was the thundering boom as a cannon fired overhead.

Everyone jolted at the sound. They watched, hollow and heart broken, as Stiles bent over her dead body and cried. They watched as he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, gently laying her among the damp leaves and resting her head against a soft cushion of moss. Their eyes were streaked with tears as Stiles plucked the luminescent flowers beside him and gathered them in a bundle, crossing Kira’s arms over her chest and resting the small bouquet of flowers and mushrooms beneath her palms. It wasn’t much but it was the best he could do.

None of them spoke.

Stiles pressed another soft kiss to her forehead and stepped back. He looked around until his eyes locked onto one of the cameras. His eyes were piercing and fierce despite the fact that they looked somewhat animalistic in the reflective glow of the night vision lens.

He pressed three fingers to his lips and rose them into the air: the District Twelve funeral salute.

One last action to honour the dead.

Everyone watching the broadcast returned to gesture.

How strange it was that the entire District fell silent, all heartbroken by the loss of a child they never knew.


	9. Chapter 9

John rose in the dwindling hours of dawn, readying himself for another shift at the coal mines. He groaned as he rose from his bed and gently nudged Chris.

Chris woke more gracefully than John, gently shuffling about so that he didn’t wake the boy who was curled up in his arms.

Isaac whimpered and rolled over, falling back asleep again.

John dressed quickly and made his way out into the living room. As he stepped into the larger space of the house, he noticed the bare feet that hung over the edge of the couch. He sighed and made his way over to the old piece of furniture.

“What are you doing out here?” John asked.

Scott rolled over to look up at the man.

“I decided to sleep out here so I wouldn’t wake Isaac when I went out hunting,” Scott replied.

“That’s a lie, and we both know it,” John said firmly. “Isaac has been running between Chris and your mum all night. So, let’s try this again, shall we? And this time, give me the real answer. What are you doing out here?”

“I can’t sleep,” Scott muttered. “If it’s not nightmares, then it’s guilt, if it’s not that, then it’s the quiet. It’s just too damn quiet.”

John sighed and sat down next to Scott on the old, patched-up cushion of the couch.

“I know you don’t like hearing me say it, and I’ll say it a million times over before you finally believe it, but it is not your fault. Stiles volunteered.”

“I know, but… I should have done something.”

“There was nothing you could do, and nothing you can do now, that could have changed what happened,” John assured him.

Scott sighed and bowed his head.

“It’ll be okay,” John whispered. “One way or another, we’ll all get through this.”

Scott smiled.

“You ready?” Chris asked form the kitchen, tossing John his jacket.

John sighed and straightened his back. He gently tousled Scott’s hair. He made his way back towards the kitchen and took the slice of bread that Chris offered him. He made his way towards the front door, pausing to look back at Scott. He felt helpless as he turned away and stepped into the muddy streets of District Twelve.

Chris halted in the doorway and called over his shoulder to Scott, “Get some sleep.”

Scott muttered something and John heard him stand up and make his way back towards the bedroom.

Chris closed the front door and joined John. They walked in silence as they made their way across the District and towards the mines. Their heavy boots trudged through the muddy puddles and sludge of defrosting ice. They waved to the children who played in the streets, despite the icy bight of the morning air, and talking briefly to the stall owners and passing workers.

Occasionally, they would pass a small group of people who watched on in silence, still feeling the fear for Stiles and Allison and the strange sense of sorrowful loss that followed Kira’s death, but at the same time they looked at the men with admiration for their strength during the hard times and pride for the kids that these men raised.

Among the hushed sounds of the District, John heard something that made him stop.

He looked about the dull streets, his bright eyes piercing the shadows until he found what had caught his attention He slowly made his way across the street towards the shuddering figure that cowered beneath the rotting wood of a pallet that had been tipped over to obscure her from the eyes of anyone who passed by.

“Hey,” he whispered, carefully sitting the wooden pallet upright to get a better look at the little boy who cowered behind it. “Are you okay?”

The little boy didn’t reply, he rubbed at his face with the fraying fabric of his shirt’s sleeve and stiffed back his tears.

“Have you been here all night?” John asked.

The boy nodded.

“Why were you hiding?”

“Daddy was mad at me,” the boy replied, his voice raspy and trembling as he weak body shuddered.

John sighed. The boy’s father – Bobby Finstock, or more commonly known as ‘Coach’ – was known for his alcoholism. He was as bad as John used to be when it came to drinking, the only difference is Bobby knew when to stop before he physically hurt someone.

“You’ll catch your death if you stay out in the cold. Come on.” John reached forward and beckoned the boy into his arms. He lifted him up, wrapping his jacket around the child in hopes of warming him up. He held him closer, cradling him to his chest the way he would with his son when Stiles was younger.

“I’m sure your daddy didn’t mean it,” John whispered, his mind was flooded with the drunken-hazed memories of all the times he had shouted at Stiles, or thrown something at him, and how it had been over nothing.

He desperately fought back the thoughts, craning his neck to look at the little boy in his arms.

“Let’s get you home where it’s dry and warm.”

The two men diverted their path and made their way towards the market. They carried the boy up to one of the stalls and knocked at the door to the small house behind it.

A dishevelled man opened it, his wiry hair unkempt, his beard unshaven and his eyes bloodshot. They could smell the whiskey on him. But the look in his eyes shifted from discontent at the intrusion, to fear at the sight of the bundled body in John’s arms to an expression of hope and relief as he son moved about.

He took the boy in his own arms, wrapped him in the blanket that was draped around his shoulders and held him close. He nearly fell to his knees, cradling the boy to his chest and crying into his muddy brown hair.

“Give him a warm bath,” Chris instructed gently. “Get him some dry, clean clothes and keep him warm.”

“Thank you,” Bobby sobbed breathlessly. “Thank you.”

Chris farewelled the man and the boy in his arms waved to them as they left, crossing the market place and trudging towards the mines.

Now alone and amidst the quiet of the District, John’s troubled thoughts won the fight and flooded his mind, crashing over him like a tidal wave.

He felt his heart sink when he thought of the young boy in the arena, traumatised by all the things his father had put him through. He felt sick when he remembered all the times that Stiles and Melissa used to hide the bottles from him, and how he took his frustrations out on his son. Tears brewed in his eyes as he remembered seeing the cowering boy clean up the shattered glass and broken furniture, not daring to cry or make a sound in fear of his father’s rage. He remembered how Stiles would hide his cuts and bruises from everyone, including his father and Melissa, in fear of what people would think of his father.

Chris seemed to notice his friend’s pain. He stepped forward and rested his hand on John’s shoulder.

“That was long ago,” he reminded John. “You were a different man. And no-one blames you.”

“Stiles does,” John whispered. “And that’s the worst bit.”

“He doesn’t,” Chris assured him. “He blames the alcohol and the grief of losing Claudia. He does not, for one second, blame you.”

John ran his hand through his thinning hair.

Everything they had gone through while Claudia was sick – all the abuse and the nightmares, Stiles had suffered through that too.

“I should have been a better father,” John muttered.

“You are a great father. Stiles loves you dearly. Scott and Isaac love you too.”

John’s thoughts flicked to the boys: Scott, who picked fights in the town, and Isaac, who was covered in scars and fresh wounds when they took him in. And then there was Allison, who suffered her mother’s death.

“Why do our kids have suffer so much?” John asked, feeling defeated and helpless. “They’ve been beaten, abused, and traumatised, and still, every year, they’re put up for auction like lambs to the slaughter. Why can’t we do something to protect them? Why can’t we do more?”

“There’s nothing we can do,” Chris muttered.

“They deserve more than this,” John whispered. “They’ve suffered through hell and have fought back on their own. They’ve stood their ground and taken beatings and abuse when we should have stopped it… I wish things were different.”

“So do I,” Chris replied. He gently patted his friend’s shoulder and set the scratched, dirty, old hard hat atop his head.

A young man, smeared in thick black coal dust that had clung to his skin because of the layered sweat in his pores, made his way over to them.

“You guys heading in?” he asked.

John and Chris nodded.

“Be careful,” he warned. “The tunnels are shaky and a couple of large rocks are coming loose. We had a few close calls this morning.”

The young man paused and thought for a second, before turning his attention back to the two people before him.

“It gets you thinking, doesn’t it?” He paused. “Just to think, I could have died down there without ever saying goodbye to my wife…”

John glanced down. He noticed the thick red blood that seeped through the man’s shirt and stained his sleeve.

“Take a couple of deep breaths and steady yourself,” Chris instructed, guiding the young man towards a nearby log and sat him down. He crouched before him, levelling his eyes with the young man and speaking calmly. “When you think you’re ready to walk, go see Melissa McCall and get yourself looked at. Then go home, tell your wife that you love her, and be thankful that you’re still alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have read Hunted, that young man who's in shock is Laura's father... Let that sink in for a moment... Yeah, I hate me too.


	10. Chapter 10

John had tried to get a full night’s sleep but it didn’t come easy. Unlike Chris, he didn’t have the comfort of knowing his child was a capable fighter.

Was Stiles capable? Of course he was. Was he good with weapons? Yes, but he didn’t have any. And he wasn’t used to fighting for his life. Especially not against other people.

As dawn crept in across the District, John decided it would be best if he got up and started getting everything ready for the day – a chore Stiles would usually do. Chris had woken and left in the early hours – most likely to go hunting – leaving John alone in the bedroom.

He rose out of bed, dressed and trudged into the kitchen. His weary eyes fell upon the figure, huddled in a thin blanket, before the dust-covered screen of the TV.

“Hey, buddy,” John whispered.

Isaac jolted upright, wide eyes full of shock as he turned to John.

John stepped over to the boy’s side. “What are you doing up this early?”

Isaac pointed at the old, coal-smeared screen. “Waiting for Stiles.”

John sighed and gently tussled the boy’s hair.

“The broadcast won’t be on for a little while,” He told Isaac. “Do you want to help me get breakfast ready?”

Isaac looked from the man to the blank screen and then nodded.

“Okay, can you get the bag of oats out of the pantry? I’ll get the fire going and we’ll have some porridge for breakfast, does that sound good?”

Isaac nodded frantically, his sandy curls bouncing about on top of his head as he leapt to his feet and sprinted into the kitchen. John watched him for a moment, smiling as Isaac wound his arms around the hessian bag of oats and lifted it out of the cupboard. He staggered slightly as he carried it over to the bench and set it down.

John turned his attention to the small fire place and tossed a log and some twigs onto the long-dead ambers. He struck a match and ignited the smaller branches.

He heard a quiet clunking as Isaac lugged about the small cauldron and filled it with water before bringing it over to John.

John thanked him and hung it over the growing flames.

Isaac tottered over to the couch and brought over the blanket he had pulled off of his bed earlier, tossing it over John’s shoulders before settling into the man’s lap.

John pulled him into his arms, feeling how cold he was.

“Why didn’t you come ask me to light the fire?” John asked, rubbing his broad hands against the boy’s frail arms in hopes it would warm him up.

“I didn’t want to move in case the TV turned on,” Isaac muttered.

Soft footsteps pattered over to their side.

“Jeez, it’s cold,” Scott hissed, sitting down next to John, his hands extended towards the fire.

John held up the edge of the blanket and Scott shuffled closer into the warmth. John laid his arm around Scott’s shoulders and held him close.

 _My boys,_ John thought, _I still have my boys._

Scott gently prodded Isaac’s sides and whispered, "Where did you go?”

Isaac fought off Scott’s hands. He stifled his giggles and growled in protest. “I wanted to watch Stiles.”

John craned his neck to look at the younger boy. “We’ll have some breakfast and, by the time we finish and get dressed, the broadcast should be on, okay?”

“Okay,” Isaac muttered. “Is the water ready yet?”

Scott shuffled forward and looked over the edge of the cauldron.

“It’s boiling,” he announced.

“Do you want to go and get the oats?” John asked Isaac.

The boy jumped up, his bare feet pattering against the withered floorboards as he hurried into the kitchen. He collected the bag of oats and carefully carried it over to John. Scott rolled his eyes at the sight and walked into the kitchen to collect a wooden spoon.

John thanked Isaac as he took the bag from him and scooped the oats into the cauldron. He handed the bag back to Isaac. The young boy carried it back into the kitchen and stowed it away in the cupboard.

Scott handed John the spoon and returned to the kitchen to quickly wash some bowls.

John stirred the oats, listening to Scott and Isaac move about in the kitchen.

“Isaac, go get dressed,” Scott instructed.

Isaac made a noise of discontent.

“The sooner you get dressed, the quicker we can have breakfast and sit down to watch Stiles,” Scott bargained.

The sound of the boy’s feet trailed off down the hallway. They listened to him rummage through the cupboard and pull out his clothes. Soon, Isaac emerged, fiddling with the buttons at the top of his shirt.

“Come here,” Scott chuckled, wiping his hands dry on a towel and gesturing for the young boy to come closer. He buttoned up Isaac’s shirt and told him to sit down at the table.

John was startled by the abrupt sound of Isaac’s shrill laughter. He span around to see Melissa littering kisses across Isaac’s pale cheeks. Scott chuckled and rolled his eyes. Melissa tousled Isaac’s hair and stepped over to Scott’s side. She pulled her son into her arms and pressed a loving kiss to his cheek. He smiled and returned to scrubbing the dishes.

“Smells good,” Melissa said, making her way over to John’s side. Now that she was out of ear shot, her smile faded. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” John lied.

“Try again.”

John sighed. “He’s my son, of course I’m worried. But for now, he’s alive and that’s all that matters.”

Melissa pressed a kiss against John’s wrinkled forehead.

“Breakfast is ready,” John announced, lifting the pot of oats off of the fire. He carried the small cauldron over to the table and set it atop the scarred wooden chopping board.

Scott brought over the bowls and helped John spoon the porridge into the small bowls.

Isaac licked his lips, his beady eyes watching their every move. His stomach growled as the smell of freshly cooked oats filled his nose.

The front door rattled on its hinges.

“Porridge?” Chris asked, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it up on the small notch by the door.

“Yep,” Isaac chirped.

“It wouldn’t be the same without this.” Chris held up a small jar of sticky honeycomb.

Isaac squealed with delight.

“Okay, okay, calm down,” Chris chuckled, walking over to the table. He made his way over to Isaac’s side and pulled a chunk of honeycomb out of the jar, setting it down among the mushed paste of his breakfast.

“Thank you,” Isaac chirped.

The boy waited as patiently as he could for everyone else to dish their bowls of porridge and be blessed by Chris’ sweet treat, but the enticing smell was testing him. He fidgeted in his seat, ravenous eyes growing wider.

“Just start already,” John told him.

Isaac didn’t need to be told twice. He shovelled spoonfuls of the gluggy oats into his mouth, so thankful that they were flavoured by the smooth, sweet honey.

He was finished in less than a minute, and no sooner had he finished did the TV blink on.

Isaac looked at John pleadingly.

“Go on,” he called over the Capitol Anthem that chimed over the ‘compulsory viewing’ banner.

Isaac jumped out of his chair and sprinted to the couch.

The rest of the family finished their breakfast quickly.

Dawn cracked in the arena, streaking the screen with magnificent splashed of oranges, reds and purples.

The cameras were focused on Stiles as the boy dragged himself through the undergrowth. He was waving his hand weakly in order to shoo something away.

“What’s he doing?” John asked.

Scott took a step closer, staring at the screen intently.

“Shit,” Scott gasped.

“Scott,” his mother scolded from the kitchen, stacking the bowls in the sink.

Scott whispered an apology and turned his panicked eyes towards Chris. He pointed at the edge of the screen where a large wasp nest sat among the jagged branches of the trees. “Tracker jackers.”

The screen divided in two, the second panel lighting up with the face of the commentator of the Games as he processed to confirm their suspicions and explained what tracker jackers were – even though they already knew.

“These are tracker jackers: genetically mutated wasps whose venom is powerful enough to induce hallucinations and cause death.”

The creatures began to swarm around Stiles, burying their barbs in any exposed patches of flesh they could reach.

Isaac let out a panicked cry and Melissa leapt to his side, pulling the boy close.

“He’ll be okay,” Scott whispered.

“Scott-” Chris started.

“No, he’s been stung before. That counts for something, right?”

Stiles dropped to the ground, collapsing beside two swollen figures. Their faces were unrecognisable, swollen and discoloured; smears of red, blue and green tainting their skin. Through the shifting haze of the swarm John made out the black outlines of numbers on their sleeves: 5 and 10.

Cannons fired, two loud booms shattering the air.

The swarm dissipated.

“Come on, Stiles,” John whispered desperately, his calloused hands gripping the back of the couch.

His prayers were answered.

There was movement: a twitch.

“Oh, thank God,” John sighed with relief.

The boy lifted his head. He rolled onto his back and wheeled away from the corpses with a start.

Stiles scrambled to his feet and sprinted through the small pathway of dead leaves and mossy detritus. He stumbled and flailed about as he scurried through the trees.

“Where’s he going?” Melissa mused.

“He’s hallucinating,” Chris spoke up. “He got hit with enough venom that he probably doesn’t know which way is up.”

Stiles toppled down an embankment and fell still among the mud. He seemed to regain his senses, sinking further into the puddle and smearing the clay across the swollen welts of the tracker jacker stings. He seemed entranced by his hand, his face contorted into an expression of shock and horror before he plunged his hand into a puddle of water.

“What the hell is he seeing?” John whispered, concerned.

Chris reached forward and rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Stiles’ panic seemed to escalate.

“Calm down, Stiles,” Scott muttered. “Think. It’s not real… It’s not real.”

He knew Stiles couldn’t hear him, but his fear got the better of him as he begged for some way for his thoughts to reach Stiles.

It was just like years ago, when they had been hunting in the forests outside District Twelve when Stiles had been stung. Scott and Allison had managed to keep him calm enough that he didn’t send himself into shock.

That’s what kills you, the shock of living through nightmarish horrors.

But that was different. Stiles had lived through so much trauma since then, things that would make the hallucinations so much worse. And, this time, he was alone. There was no-one to comfort him and tell him he’d be okay.

He was scared and alone.

John’s heart sank at the sound of his son’s screams, the rugged cry emptying the boy’s lungs.

His mind flooded with the thoughts of all the possible unimaginable horrors that Stiles could be envisioning: the blood, the shattered glass, his mother, his father, he abuse, and everything else.

He watched, helpless, as the boy thrashed about, wheeling back against the muddy bank. He collapsed on his back, heaving in shallow breaths and staring up at the patches of clear blue sky that broke through the dense foliage.

“Stiles?” Isaac whimpered.

“Why isn’t he moving?” Melissa asked, panicked.

John stared at the screen, tears of fear welling up in his eyes.

Isaac began to cry. Melissa bundled him up in her arms.

“No,” Scott said with finality.

All eyes turned to him.

“He’s not dead until that cannon fires,” he snapped.

A wave of guilt rolled over the room, seeping into those who had not maintained their faith in Stiles.

It was a long wait. There was a heavy silence that suffocated the entire District.

A dark figure sprinted through the undergrowth, axe in hand. He made his way towards Stiles.

“No!” Isaac screeched as if his cry would scare the tribute away.

But the tribute stopped before the boy, kneeling down by his side. He gently shook the boy’s shoulder, calling his name.

“Stiles?”

The gruff voice stirred the boy.

Stiles blinked open his eyes, clearly disorientated and confused.

Derek pressed a hand to the boy’s cheek, keeping Stiles’ head upright as the boy slowly regained consciousness.

Stiles jolted upright, gasping for air and sputtering as he spat out a mouthful of water, blood and mud.

Derek’s broad hands gently steadied the boy.

“Stiles, you have to get up,” Derek urged, a hint of panic in his voice.

It seemed as if Stiles didn’t hear him. The boy blinked heavily, looking up at the Career’s sparkling aventurine eyes.

“Stiles, you have to run,” Derek said firmly, his husky voice finally reaching the boy and spurring fear. “Get up and run.”

Everyone was so focused on Stiles that they didn’t notice the approaching figure.

Derek was hurled backwards. He grunted as he hit the thick trunk of a tree, his teeth bared in a vicious snarl and eyes burning with rage.

Another figure stepped into view, her dark skin somewhat luminescent as she twitched her fingers like a predator readying their claws. Her sharpened nails were dangerously close to Stiles’ face, but she hadn’t noticed the boy yet.

Her dark eyes were locked onto Derek, her face was darkened by the shadows that were cast by the thick curtain of her loose dark hair.

Derek rose to his feet, steadied himself on his wavering legs and braced his body against the tree, ready to leap into action.

“Run!” Derek howled, lunging at Kali.

Stiles scrambled to his feet and sprinted into the forest. He bounced off of the tree trunks. His shoulders collided with the rough bark as he stumbled about, falling over his own feet.

The camera focused on the Careers.

They watched on in fear for Derek as the older boy tried to avoid Kali’s sharpened talons. He swung his axe in return, crying out as metal and nails collided with their flesh.

The open gashes spilt blood across the forest floor.

They were knocked off of their feet, wrestling through the mud.

Derek lost his grip on the axe. The weapon thudded against the roots of a nearby tree, just out of Derek’s reach. The teen shoved Kali aside, crawling back across the ground towards the gleaming metal weapon that was cast aside among the scattered leaves and detritus.

Kali grabbed his legs, her nails piercing his pants as she dragged him back across the ground.

He rolled over, lifting his arms to shield himself as Kali straddled him and slashed open his skin with her claws.

He fought back, grabbing her wrists and throwing punches.

The fight that followed was brutal: a mix of animalistic growls, vicious snarls and savage cries.

They moved so quickly the camera’s failed to focus on them.

No-one could keep a track of what was happening; it was a mess of limbs and blood. Until, suddenly, they fell still.

A cannon fired overhead.

Isaac let out a stunned shriek.

There was a quiet groan as Kali’s body fell away from Derek.

John stared at the screen. His throat was dry and his heart was pounding against his ribs. He leant forward intently, watching for any sign of which tribute had survived.

There was a grunt of pain as Derek rolled onto his side, sliding his small hunting knife into the sheath that was strapped to his thigh. He rose to his feet, staggering slightly as he tried to steady his breath.

He collected his axe and slid it into the open patch of his bag, readily available if he should need it. He staggered back through the bush, casting weary glances over his shoulder.

Through the shadows of the twilight, they could just make out the shape of another tribute, cowering at the foot of the tree.

The house was silent as the camera’s flicked over to night vision mode, revealing the trembling, frail figure.

There was no mistaking who it was.

“Stiles,” John gasped.

John felt his heart sink into his stomach as he helplessly watched Derek saunter towards the younger boy.

“Run, Stiles,” Scott whispered, sitting on the edge of the couch and leaning forward. “Run.”

Stiles didn’t stand a chance against Derek, they all knew that. He couldn’t run and, even if he was in his right mind, he wouldn’t be able to fight back.

All eyes were focused on the two as Derek stalked towards the boy, like a predator after his prey.

They waited in anticipation, expecting a horrific slaughter.

No one expected Derek to shove Stiles back against the tree and kiss him.


	11. Chapter 11

An awkward quiet spread throughout the house as they all watched on in shock.

Isaac broke the silence, asking, “Why is he kissing Stiles?”

Scott snorted with laughter at the boy’s bluntness.

John and Melissa exchanged glances.

“Uh… John?” Melissa shifted the conversation.

“Oh, no, I gave the talk to Scott and Stiles, I’m not doing this one. Scott?”

The boy shuffled about on the couch. “Don’t look at me. Mum?”

“Okay,” Melissa started slowly. “You know how Scott loves Allison?”

Isaac nodded, looking at her with his curious blue eyes.

“Well, sometimes some boys feel that way about other boys,” Melissa continued. “And it seems that Derek feels that way about Stiles.”

“Stiles seems pretty into it too,” Chris added, eyes fixed on the screen.

John dared to look.

The two boys were bundled in each other’s arms. Their fists tugged at the fabric of their shirts, hands brushing against skin and fingers threaded through hair. Their mouths were crushed together in a passionate kiss that broke only when they needed to draw breath.

Melissa turned to the men. “Oh, come on, as if you didn’t know.”

“Know what?” John asked.

“Stiles’ sexuality.”

“He’d go after anything with a pulse and pretty eyes,” Scott joked.

“Scott,” Melissa growled warningly.

John shrugged. “I never hazarded a guess. It sounds like bad parenting, but I don’t care; he’s my son and I love him, regardless of whether he likes girls or guys.”

“Or both,” Scott added.

“Well I like Stiles even if he likes boys,” Isaac piped up, turning away from the conversation and back to the TV.

Finally the two boys parted and everyone’s attention turned back to the television.

“The girl from District Seven has been trailing you for a while now,” Derek whispered just loud enough for the microphones to pick up his voice. “You’re safe, and your friend – Allison – is too. She should be up ahead.”

Chris and Scott sighed with relief.

She was alive.

And obviously, what Allison was doing wasn’t entertaining enough to be seen on the broadcast and so the Gamemakers had decided to focus on Stiles.

They watched as Derek rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a handful of leaves. “Take these. Chew them and put them on the tracker jacker bites. They’ll help.”

John looked over to Chris who squinted at the screen before nodding, confirming that they would indeed help.

Derek pulled out his gleaming silver axe.

Everyone froze.

The Career swapped over their bags, trading his clean bag for the mud-soaked torn canvas backpack that Stiles had been lugging about. “There’s enough food and water in there for you and Allison to survive two days. There’s chemicals in there to make water drinkable and a sleeping bag for when the nights get cold. Find cover, stay low and stay safe. I’ll keep Seven and the Careers off your back. Go.”

Stiles seemed stunned – confused. “You kissed me?”

The bushes crackled and the cameras zoomed out, focusing on the approaching figure. They panned across the arena to show Derek stepping out in front of Stiles and tightening his grip on his axe.

“Go.”

Stiles fumbled for the bag, grabbing a hold of the canvas and scurrying into the darkness.

The cameras turned away from the boy and back to the raging fight between Derek and Jennifer.

“He’ll be okay, right?” Isaac asked, concern filling his voice.

“Who? Stiles or Derek?” Scott asked.

“Both.”

“Yeah,” Chris replied. “They’ll be alright.”

A cannon fired, startling smaller animals and spurring birds from the branches as Jennifer’s lifeless body fell to the ground.

The forest fell quiet as the tributes settled down for the night.

The broadcast was replaced with Capitol insignia, the anthem ringing in their ears as the faces of the fallen tributes lit up the screen.

‘District 1’, Kali. ‘District 5’, Kira and her fellow male tribute. ‘District 7’, Jennifer, a nice looking young lady with long black curls who had shown her psychotic nature as soon as the Games had begun. The final portraits were of the boy from District Nine and the girl from District Ten.

“Eight left,” Chris muttered.

John glanced at his friend. “They’re alive. That’s all that matters.”


	12. Chapter 12

No-one seemed to sleep well that night. Everyone seemed to sense an ominous foreboding of something that was yet to come. No-one could quite put their finger on what it was, but something seemed off, as if something terrible was just about to happen.

They day was eerily quiet.

They woke – even though none of them slept – and dressed. They ate breakfast and Chris and John went to work in the mines, leaving Melissa and the boys at home. Scott had left a few minutes later to go hunting and Isaac helped Melissa get medicines and perfumes ready for sale.

As mid-day rolled by, Chris and John returned from their shifts, washed and dressed in clean clothes.

Scott returned with two rabbits and some cash from whatever he had sold at the market. He set the money in the jar on the top shelf of the cupboard, hiding it away for when he had enough to buy Isaac a birthday present. Over the year he had collected almost enough to buy Isaac a new shirt, some strawberries and a small block of chocolate. It wasn’t much, but seeing the delight on Isaac’s face when he was told that they were all for him made everything better.

Scott took the dead rabbits out the back, skinned and gutted them before stowing them away in a pot for later. He pegged out the pelts to dry so that he could take them to the market later.

He cleaned himself up and joined Isaac and John on the couch.

Chris wandered between his house and theirs, bringing over some scraps of food; vegetables, spices and whatever else he could find.

No matter what they were doing, no-one spoke more than a few words to each other.

The silence was broken as the television switched itself on and the broadcast began.

Everyone in the house froze as the melody of the Capitol now chilled them to the core.

The commentator had little to say. They diverted the conversation and turned the attention of their viewers to the footage from the arena.

A loud bang shattered the air.

Everyone jolted.

The cameras turned away from the fallen tribute, focusing on the two figures that dove behind tree trunks.

Chris squinted at the screen, just able to make out the young girl’s face. “Is that-?”

“Allison,” Scott confirmed, his voice a mix of joy and fear.

She had an arrow notched and her bow was ready to be drawn.

“It’s Stiles,” Isaac muttered, pointing at the other side of the screen.

The house fell silent.

Their eyes were wide with fear.

No on-one could tear their gaze away from the screen.

“She wouldn’t,” Scott gasped, lips trembling. “She wouldn’t.”

Allison stepped out from behind the tree pulling the string taut. The gleaming silver tip was aimed right between Stiles’ eyes.

Isaac squealed and John’s blood ran cold. Icy chills ran up his spine as his breath escaped him.

Stiles froze, helpless.

There was a moment of silence before a sense of recognition passed over Allison’s face.

“Stiles?” she gasped, lowering her bow and pulling the boy into a tight hug.

“Allison?” Stiles muttered, returning the hug without hesitation. “Oh thank God, you’re alive.”

The household let out a collective sigh of relief.

Chris rested his hand on John’s shoulder, sapphire blue eyes focused on the screen as he whispered, “They’re okay. They’re both okay.”

The next few minutes were quiet as Stiles gave Allison some water and they made a plan to head to the nearest water source.

“They’ll win this now, no doubt,” Isaac chirped.

“Why do you say that?” John asked, not out of disbelief, but out of curiosity about the boy’s confidence and reasoning.

“Because Allison is the best hunter ever – sorry, Chris – and she’ll keep Stiles safe, and Stiles is…” His voice trailed off as he tried to think.

“Stiles is stubborn,” Scott finished. “He won’t go down without a fight and he won’t let anyone hurt Allison.”

Isaac nodded in agreement.

Melissa shushed them, drawing their attention back to the screen.

They were drawn to the sight of Allison, alert with an arrow strung, her bow raised and the string pulled taut.

A strong figure by the riverside rose to his feet and turned to face the two of them.

Derek’s eyes were focused, but shock seeped in around the edges.

He held onto his axe, but neither made a move.

“But they had an alliance,” Scott muttered.

“Alliances can be broken,” Chris replied. “You can’t trust anyone in a battle royal.”

Derek flinched. Something struck his neck.

Allison turned and let her arrow fly.

A strong-built boy fell from the boughs of a tree, striking the ground as a cannon fired.

The camera focused on Derek as he cringed as his plucked a dart from his neck. He swayed slightly as the small dart fell from his fingers and he toppled backwards down the muddy embankment.

The foaming waves of the river towed him beneath the tide.

Isaac let out a terrified shriek, burying his face in his hands and peering out from between his fingers.

Scott pulled the younger boy into his arms, letting Isaac curl up against his side and hide his face if the fabric of Scott’s shirt.

Stiles scurried forward, collecting the small dart off the ground. He sniffed at the tip.

“Shit,” the boy cursed under his breath, dropping his bag beside the embankment and sprinted towards the water. Behind him, Allison screamed his name, but he ignored her and dove into the creek.

Silence fell over them as the two boys disappeared beneath the rippling surface.

They held their breath, waiting.

“Where is he?” Isaac whimpered.

“He’ll be okay,” Scott promised. He glanced out the corner of his eye at John, a glimmer of fear dwelling in his eyes. “He’ll be okay… He has to be.”

John glanced at Scott. They didn’t have to say it, the fear was there. There was one thing they both knew: Stiles couldn’t swim.

But before the terror set in, Stiles burst into the open air, gasping for air and thrashing about as he tried to keep Derek upright with him. The water knocked them about a little, but Stiles did the best he could to stay afloat.

“Stiles?” Allison called.

“I’m okay,” he replied, adjusting his grip on Derek to hold hip upright.

“Just drop me and run,” Derek growled, spitting out mouthfuls of water.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m only keeping you alive,” Stiles barked, sputtering out mouthfuls of water as he struggled to hold the larger boy upright in the water.

“Why?” Derek asked. “You could drop me right now. Eliminate one more threat.”

“Maybe I’m repaying you for how many timed you’ve saved me. Maybe I’m thanking you for helping Allison. Maybe I just like you. So shut up and accept the fact that I’m saving you.”

Allison shouldered her bow and reached out over the rippling sheets of black water for her friend.

Stiles flailed about as he tried to swim closer to her. He adjusted his hold on Derek and helped her lift the larger boy out of the water.

She laid the man down on the embankment as Stiles waded out of the creek and dragged his feet over to the older boy’s side. He knelt beside Derek, shoving his hand into the pocket of his own pants. He pulled out a handful of the plump, wet leaves.

“Will these work?” he asked Allison.

She glanced from the leaves to Stiles, seemingly confused.

“Allison,” Stiles growled, snapping her out of her thoughts.

“They should,” she replied.

Stiles put a few of the leaves in his mouth, chewing them before spitting the mushy green paste into his hand and smearing it across the firm tendons of Derek’s neck.

“Just leave me,” Derek growled through gritted teeth.

“Shut up and rest,” Stiles ordered.

They settled in, listening to the soft lapping of the waves as Stiles filled the water bottle and added the purifying drops.

Isaac calmed down over time. He kept fidgeting, indecisive of whether he wanted to curl up and use Scott’s thigh as a pillow or sit up and watch the rest of the broadcast. Eventually, he decided to sit on the floor by Scott’s feet, leaning against his shins and giving up his space so that the adults could sit on the couch. Melissa laid a blanket around the younger boy to make him a little more comfortable as she and John settled down on the couch.

They watched as Derek grunted and groaned every now and then. Feeling had returned to his limbs.

Stiles scampered over to his side and helped Derek sit upright and eat. After a while the older boy was back on his feet, swinging his axe and testing his muscles.

Their attention was drawn back to the screen when the trio were alerted by a rustling among the nearby trees. The camera panned out slightly, just enough to show the branches swaying and bending as a large figure emerged.

“I told you I’d find you, Twelve,” Ennis growled, his heavy shoulders heaving with savage breaths. His eyes were wide and wild as he stalked towards Stiles like a crazed animal.

Isaac cowered against Scott’s leg. The older boy leant down and cradled him.

They watched on, terrified, as Ennis readjusted his grip on his spear and hurled it towards Stiles.

Allison shoved her friend aside, drawing an arrow and firing it in one smooth motion. The tip burrowed into the Career’s shoulder, making Ennis cry out as he stumbled backwards. He snarled and turned away, sprinting into the bushes with Derek hot on his heels.

“Stiles,” Allison whispered, her voice weak.

Everyone froze.

Something was wrong.

The camera turned on Allison.

A thick pole jutted out of her chest.

Her slender fingers coiled around the pole.

Isaac let out a broken wail. His cries blended into Stiles’ as Allison drew the spear out of her.

Melissa dropped to the floor, pulling the young boy into her arms.

Chris seemed void, stunned by the sight of the thick streams of blood that gushed from his daughter’s wound. She choked on her breath and collapsed to the ground.

Stiles sprinted to her side. He dropped to his knees and lifted her quivering body into his arms.

He spoke softly to her, stroking back the messy strands of her hair.

Tears streaked her cheeks, clearing away the dirt and grime that smeared her face.

“No,” Scott whispered, numb tears falling from his eyes.

“No, no, no,” Stiles pleaded.

His hands trembled as he tried to put pressure over the gaping wound.

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles whispered, his voice strained as he stroked the dark waves of her hair. “This is all my fault. I’m so sorry.”

“Stiles,” she rasped. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not okay,” Stiles stammered.

“It’s okay,” Allison repeated, assuring him. “It doesn’t hurt.”

Tears begin to fall from Stiles’ eyes before he could stop them.

“Stiles, listen to me. You have to win. You have to survive this. Promise me you’ll make it through this.”

“I’ll try. I promise I’ll try,” Stiles whispered breathlessly.

Her breathing was shallow, frail wisps of air that passed her trembling lips. Allison shuddered in his arms, coughing and gasping for air. Blood dripped across her lips.

“Sing to me,” she pleaded. “Please.”

“I can’t sing.”

“You used to sing for your mother,” Allison reminded him.

He sniffed back his tears and hummed the soft melody. His voice was hoarse as he began to sing quietly,

 

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_

_And when they again open, the sun will rise._

The words seemed to flow from his lips. Quiet but natural, just like they had years ago when he sat by his mother’s bedside.

John bowed his head, frail tears falling from his eyes.

Isaac’s cries grew louder as Melissa held him close, her own face damp with tears.

Scott was in shock, staring at the television screen as if it were a mirage, a nightmare that would soon go away.

John watched as his son took Allison’s hand in his and continued,

 

_Here it’s safe, here it’s warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you._

_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away_

_A cload of leaves, a moonbeam ray_

_Forget your woes and let your troubles lay_

_And when again its morning, they’ wash away._

Her breathing slowed and her eyelids fluttered shut. She seemed to relax, weakening in Stiles’ hold.

Stiles bit into his lip, choking on his own breath as another wave of tears streaked his face. He swallowed hard, fighting the pain as he forced himself to finish the song.

 

_Here it’s safe, here it’s warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you._

 

The cannon fired, followed by a second blast.

Stiles held Allison close to his chest, crying violently over her lifeless body.

Isaac’s soul-shattering wail hit them, tearing through them.

Scott leapt from the chair, sprinting into the kitchen and hurling a rickety dining chair across the room.

“Scott!” John howled.

The boy didn’t stay to be scolded. He tore open the front door and ran out into the District.

John bounded off the couch and raced after the boy, leaving Melissa to comfort Isaac and Chris, who was still staring blankly at the screen.

“Scott!” John called after the teen, grabbing his wrist before he had the chance to thrash about and break something or hurt someone.

“Let me go,” Scott screamed.

“To do what? Where are you going to go? What are you going to do?” John shouted in response, his voice over powering Scott’s. “You can’t storm the Capitol, and there is nothing you can do to bring her back! I’m sorry, but that’s how it is.”

“Then I won’t let her death be in vain,” Scott retorted. “I’ll make it mean something.”

“It does. Look!” John barked, pointing at the large screens above the Justice Building.

Scott heaved in rugged breaths, his eyes were bloodshot and tears streaking his cheeks as he turned to look at the broadcast.

He watched as Stiles set Allison down on the grass, carefully lowering her body among the wavering vibrant green blades of vibrant. He stepped away from her for a second, crawling about the undergrowth to pick bouquets of flowers: white roses, daisies, lilies and various other blossoms. Stiles took his time, laying them down on the ground around her still body.

A second figure approached, but Scott was too focused on Stiles to care.

The boy continued to position the flowers around Allison, pressing the stalks under her body in order to keep them upright. He collected a bundle of flowers and laid them beneath his hands.

The other tribute returned, stepping closer to the boy and slowing. The second boy stopped beside Allison and knelt in the damp grass.

Scott glanced to the other side of the screen, noticed the solemn face of the second tribute.

Derek.

He watched as the older teenager reached forward and wove stands of wolfsbane and small daisies into halo of braided hair that encircled Allison’s head.

“She didn’t deserve this,” Derek whispered, voice quiet as his soft eyes looked over Allison’s face.

The District was soundless, watching as Derek and Stiles sat in silence, warm tears rolling down their cheeks.

After a moment, Stiles unclasped Allison’s necklace and sat back. His hands trembled as he struggled to wind the leather band around his wrist. Derek reached over, his nimble fingers fastening the clasp.

Stiles watched as Derek rose to his feet, collecting his axe as he did. He stepped aside and waited for Stiles, his head bowed in respect.

A small crowd filtered out of their houses, gathering in the common area.

Chris carried Isaac out of the house, the boy’s tear-stained face buried in the curve of his neck. Melissa followed, a comforting hand resting between Chris’ shoulder blades as they made their way over to John and Scott.

All eyes turned to the screens.

They watched Stiles lean forward and press a tender kiss to Allison’s forehead. He rose to his feet, turning about until he found a camera among the trees. He faced it, pressing three fingers to his lips in a soft kiss before raising his arm into the air: the funeral salute of District Twelve.

One by one, the District returned the gesture.

Gone, but never forgotten.

Scott turned to Chris. The boy shook his head, tears streaking his cheeks. His lips trembled and his voice scratched at his throat as he rasped, “It all happened so fast.”


	13. Chapter 13

The District was silent as the families slowly filtered back into their homes.

John wasn’t sure whether it was Isaac who refused to let go of Chris or if it was Chris who refused to relinquish his hold on the boy, but they ended up sitting on the couch together, curled up in each other’s arms.

Scott sat beside them, slumping weakly against his mother’s side while holding onto Isaac’s hand. He ran the ball of his thumb across the ridges of Isaac’s knuckles and the smooth skin of the back of his hands.

Melissa wrapped her arms around Scott, holding him close as his free hand trailed up and down her forearm, a small gesture to assure her that he was there, but also to assure himself that she was there.

John leant forward over the back of the couch, occasionally patting the Isaac’s wild hair or Scott’s shoulder.

There was a quiet knock at the door.

John straightened his back and walked across the open space towards the front door. The door creaked and rattled as he opened it.

Ethan stood on the front step, head bowed. He chocolate-brown eyes met John’s. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Firstly, I’d like to say I’m sorry. I know Allison wasn’t your daughter, but she was your family. She meant a lot to all of us and we can’t imagine what you all are going through. And if you could, could you please tell Mr Argent that we’re sorry for his loss.”

John nodded.

The boy shifted nervously. “Secondly, I’d like to apologise for the way my brother and I acted the other day.”

Ethan swallowed hard.

“And finally, we want Stiles to come home, no matter what it takes. I guess it took us losing Allison to realise how much we wanted them to come back alive. Aiden and I have talked to everyone and the whole District is willing to give up a share if not all of our rations so that we can afford to send Stiles a care package.”

John’s shoulders dropped as his heart sank into his stomach. He felt his creased face relax into a soft smile.

“Thank you,” John whispered. “Thank you all, but Stiles would never forgive me if I did that.”

“But we want to help.” Ethan was fighting back tears, his dark eyes glistening. “We want him to come home.”

“I know,” John continued. “We all do. But Stiles would never accept charity, especially if it meant you would all suffer and starve because of it.”

“Then what do we do?” He sounded defeated. Tears rolled down his cheeks, clearing away the dirt and grime that caked his face.

“Have hope. Don’t give up,” John whispered, resting his hand on the boy’s trembling shoulder. “Trust that Stiles knows what he’s doing. He’ll come home, just you watch. But for now, go home. Tell your brother you love him. Treasure the people you have in your life. And don’t give up on Stiles.”

Ethan nodded weakly.

“Go on.” John gently patted his shoulder, watching the boy trudge down the street towards his brother.

Ethan pulled Aiden into his arms. He held his brother close as he whispered something.

Aiden bowed his head into the curve of his brother's, trying to hide his tears.

John sighed and stepped back inside, closing the door behind him.

“No!” Isaac screamed.

A chill ran down John’s spine as he sprinted back into the small living room. “What’s going on?”

He silenced himself, his eyes drawn to the sight of Stiles pressing poisonous berries to his lips.

“Why are you so interested in keeping me alive?” Stiles growled. His eyes were cold and focused, as if he were interrogating Derek.

“What?”

“When the Games began, you, Boyd and Erica stopped Ennis from killing me – and, because of that, they died – then you saved me from Kali You gave me food and water and kept Allison alive. You hunted down Ennis and now you’re protecting me. Why?”

Derek pursed his lips, his expression was composed and his face void of any emotion, however fear was pooling in his eyes.

Stiles pushed the berry closer to his mouth.

“No, stop!” Isaac wailed, thrashing about in Chris’ arms and reaching for the television as if it would make a difference. His pale face and soft features were contorted by fear. He was overwhelmed by a new wave of tears fell from his eyes. Chris held him close, doing his best to calm the boy.

Scott sat upright and shuffled closer to the younger boy. He wrapped his arms around Isaac in a half-hug. He spoke sweet nothings to the boy, trying to calm him while he kept his own eyes focused intently on the screen.

John’s heart was racing, pounding against his ribs.

 _This can’t be how it ends_ , he told himself.

“Why, Derek?” Stiles insisted.

“Allison,” Derek muttered. “When we were in training, she and I made an alliance. I promised I’d help you if the two of you got separated in the arena.”

“Well, she’s dead now and you’ve held up your end of the bargain, so why are you still here?”

“Why did you save me from drowning?” Derek countered.

“Because,” Stiles replied bluntly.

“Because why?”

“Because maybe I like you,” Stiles blurted out. “Because maybe in another time and place we could have been friends.” He pushed the berry closer to his mouth.

Isaac let out another terrified scream.

John held his breath. His blood ran cold as his son continued, “So, why are you still here?”

“Because I want to be friends.”

“We can’t be friends!” Stiles cried. “Even if we do survive this and become friends, eventually it will only be the two of us in the arena and only one of us walks out of here alive, Derek. And I can tell you right now it’s not going to be me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t!” Stiles cried. “I can’t fight. I’m not strong enough to defend myself either. And most of all, I’m not worth it. So, go on then-” He opened his arms as if to welcome an attack. “-kill me or I’ll kill myself,” he threatened, pressing the berry back to his lips.

“Do that and I will follow you to hell, just so I can beat some sense into you and prove how much of an idiot you’re being.”

Stiles narrowed his glare and pushed the berry into his mouth.

Derek leapt forward and clamped his hands around the boy’s throat. He shoved his fingers in the boy’s mouth and pulled out the berry. The skin hadn’t broken, thank God.

Stiles shoved him off, coughing and spluttering as he rolled onto his side. He dragged his body across the dirt, towards the berry bush.

Derek hurled his axe at the boy, the gleaming blade striking the ground millimetres before Stiles’ fingertips.

Isaac let out a panicked yelp. Melissa tightened her grip on Scott’s arms.

Stiles froze, staring at his reflection in the axe.

“You promised,” Derek muttered, heaving in rugged breaths. “You promised her you’d survive this.”

Stiles rolled onto his back and buried his face in his hands. He let out a heart-breaking wail, tears caressing his skin and striking the cold earth.

John hung his head, the sound of his son’s cry burning a hole through his chest. He wanted to help him, to run to Stiles’ side and hold the boy close. But he couldn’t.

They watched as Derek shuffled closer, pulling Stiles off of the ground and into his arms.

Stiles grabbed at fistfuls of the older boy’s shirt, burying his face in the curve of his neck and crying like the child he was.

John let out a sigh of relief; Stiles had someone to care for him.

Derek held him close, whispering soft words of comfort to Stiles until he settled. He sat the boy up and tried to him. He waited for a second before rising to his feet.

They watched as Derek tugged the axe from the earth and tightened his grip on it. Stiles rose to his feet. He crept over to the berry bust and plucked a few plump black ones.

“No,” Isaac whimpered, too weak and tired from crying to protest.

“Stiles,” Derek growled warningly.

“They might come in handy,” Stiles replied, shoving the berries into his pocket before rising to follow Derek.

The household let out a collective sigh of relief. Isaac curled into Chris’ warmth again, his swollen, bloodshot eyes falling shut for a minute.

Scott relaxed back into Melissa’s arms, letting her stroke back the mess of his hair in an attempt to tidy it before pressing a tender kiss to the crown of his head. She held him close, cradling him against her warmth.

John tried to steady his breathing, but the moment of peace was short lived as something stirred among the tree. He watched as Stiles perked up and turned his attention towards something among the shadows.

Derek glanced from the boy to where he was looking, raising his axe ready to fight. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

The house was silent as everyone tried to listen for what Stiles heard.

“Screaming.”

It grew louder, the pained wail of a young boy.

Isaac clamped his hands over his ears, trying to block out the sound.

Chris held him close, covering his ears and cradling him into the curve of his neck.

John’s heart sank. His stomach rose into this throat. He swallowed hard against the rising bile as the scream tore through him.

There it was: the same cry they had woken too for many nights when nightmares had haunted their household. The same distorted, gut-wrenching wail of a tortured soul. The cry they had heard only moments ago.

“Isaac?” Stiles called into the shadows.

Scott’s breath fell short, his eyes darting from the screen to the child on the couch. He watched as Stiles turned towards the sound, his thick books kicking up clumps of dirt as he raced forward.

“Isaac!” he screamed, sprinting deeper into the forest. He wove through the trees, calling for the boy.

Isaac’s bright eyes flew open. He shook his head, distressed and panicking. His breathing was rugged, shallow.

“It’s okay,” Scott assured him.

The boy was confused.

“Isaac!” Stiles’ voice rang out through the speakers.

Tears welled in their eyes as they watched Stiles, horrified and distraught, sprint towards the screams.

“Stiles,” Derek called after him.

Stiles stopped in the centre of a small clearing, listening as the screams swirled around him and faded into the shadows.

Derek burst through the bushes behind him and ran up to his side. He grabbed Stiles’ arm. “Isaac isn’t here.”

“I heard him.”

Isaac began to cry, his face screwed up in pain. Chris pulled the boy against his chest, burying Isaac’s face on the soft cotton of his shirt.

Another scream broke through the quiet bush. Derek wheeled around, his sharp eyes piercing the bushes.

“Cora?” he yelled.

Derek tore off through the forest, his nimble figure blending into the shadows as he ducked between the ever-watching birch trees and thick pines.

Stiles chased after his shadow, feet tumbling beneath him as he followed Derek into another clearing. He caught sight of the flittering black bird. His eyes darted about the undergrowth as he picked up a rock and hurled it at the bird.

It fell to the ground, the scream dying with it is as the bird twitched slightly.

“It’s a jabberjay,” Stiles explained. “It wasn’t real.”

Derek looked disheartened as he replied, “Jabberjays _copy_.”

Isaac muttered inarticulately.

“They probably heard you cry when you had nightmares or when Stiles left,” Scott whispered, gently rubbing circles between the boy’s shoulder blades.

“It’s not real,” Stiles repeated.

John wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince: Derek or himself.

Stiles was silenced as the screams returned. They multiplied, intensified, filling the boys’ ears with the sounds of screaming loved ones: Isaac, Scott, Allison, Melissa, his father, his mother, and the screams of those who Derek loved and hundreds of others they didn’t know.

It was deafening. The speakers screamed with the cruel sound.

The tides of birds swarmed around them, feathers raining down on them. They lost sight of the boys, only catching glimpses of them cupped their hands over their ears.

Isaac buried his face in Chris’ chest. Scott fell into his mum’s arms, unable to take his eyes away from the screen, but dreading what he saw. Melissa wound her arms around Scott, burying her face in the mess of his hair as she reached over the back of the couch for John’s hand.

John watched, sickened and numbed as he caught sight of Stiles dropping his hand away from his ear and reaching across to press his hand over Derek’s.

Tears streaked the man’s cheeks.

It felt as if it went on for what seemed like hours.

It was an agonising wait.

But finally, it ceased: the roar of the screams died away, the birds dropped to the ground, and everything fell still. The lifeless carcases of birds were spread around them in a blanket of raven-black feathers and twitching limbs.

John swallowed hard against the growing ball of fear in his throat.

“They aren’t moving,” Melissa rasped. “Why aren’t they moving?”

Thick gashes had been taken out of their skin where sharp beaks and jagged talons had torn open exposed flesh and shredded their clothes.

 The camera zoomed in, close enough that they could make out the tears streaked the boys’ cheeks as they laid there; cold, unmoving and broken.

John’s world was quiet, his attention focused on the broadcast.

Nearby, he could hear Scott whisper to Isaac, reassuring the boy that Stiles was alive.

“The cannons haven’t fired,” Scott assured him. “He’s not dead until the cannons fire.”

John bit his lip, feeling a mix of guilt and helplessness fill his veins.

From among the dying sounds, the light twinkle of a care package could be heard.

The noise stirred Stiles. The boy blinked his weary eyes open and turned towards the overhanging foliage where a small light blinked as the parcel drifted down on its parachute.

“He’s alive,” Scott gasped.

“I bet District Two can afford as many care packages as the Careers need,” Chris growled bitterly.

“But why would they waste their recourses on kids who are going to die?” Melissa countered.

The conversation was silences by Stiles’ quiet gasps and groans as he rolled onto his front and lifted himself onto his elbows. He dragged himself towards the package. He collapsed before it, the blood-soaked leaves clinging to his skin. His hands trembled as he reached for the pack, the lid cracking open to reveal a small bottle of golden liquid and a note.

Stiles grabbed the note, groaning as the strain tore through his muscles. He blinked heavily, trying to read it. He let out soft chuckle, the sound shocked them. He grabbed the small bottle and dragged himself back to Derek’s side.

The Career was sitting up and steadying himself.

Stiles tried to sit upright. He swayed about a little bit before slumping his weight down on crossed legs. He unscrewed the lid of the bottle and held it up for Derek.

“Drink,” he rasped.

Derek lifted his stunning hazel eyes to Stiles’. He ignored the boy’s instructions, reaching forward to wipe away the small trail of vibrant red blood streamed from his ears, rolling across his cheek and mingling with the streaks from his bleeding wounds.

“I’m fine,” Stiles dismissed. He held the drink up before Derek’s face. “Drink.”

Derek shook his head, slowly. “It’s your care package.”

A closer look revealed that Derek was right; the bright white numbers on the front of the package read ‘12’.

Melissa turned her eyes to John, shocked.

“No way,” she muttered. “There’s no way that Mr-Stick-Up-His-Ass Peter Hale would ever send a care package.”

“We didn’t,” John whispered, a hint of guilt dragging at his voice. “So it had to be him. No-one else ever supports District Twelve.”

Scott shushed them, sitting upright on the edge of the couch, eyes glued on the screen.

“I’m not drinking any of it until you drink some,” Stiles croaked.

“No,” Derek mumbled, eyes brightening as he slowly regained his senses.

“Don’t be a child, Derek. Drink.”

“No.”

“I’ll slap you,” Stiles threatened.

Derek looked Stiles up and down and raised his brow questioningly.

“That’s not much of a threat,” Derek replied.

Stiles glared at him. “Just drink the damn thing.”

“You first.”

They watched as Stiles sighed and took a swig of the liquid. He swallowed hard and handed over the bottle.

Derek drank.

He coughed and sputtered, screwing his face up in disgust.

Stiles clamped his hand around Derek’s mouth before he could spit it out.

“Swallow,” Stiles instructed.

Derek obeyed, wincing as the bitter liquid slid down his throat. He coughed and spluttered.

“That’s revolting. How could you drink that with a straight face?”

“Two reasons: firstly, I’ve had to drink and eat stuff a lot worse than that in District Twelve, and secondly, I know – from experience – that you wouldn’t have drunk it if I pulled the face you just did.”

Isaac giggled guiltily, the soft chuckle was muffled by Chris’ shirt. The others couldn’t help but laugh too.

John returned his attention to the screen.

Stiles clapped his hand against the larger boy’s shoulder. “Let’s get moving.”

They watched as the two boys staggered to their feet. They took a second to orientate themselves before planning to head for the caves by the creek.

Stiles took one step forwards and toppled to the ground.

John gasped, his body jolting by instinct as he fought back the need to run to the boy’s aide.

Derek was quick to act. He bounded to his side, grabbing Stiles’ arm and helping him to his feet. He lifted Stiles’ scrawny arm over his shoulders and supported his weight.

The two grunted as they hobbled through the darkening shadows of the forest, dusk rolling in on their heels.

Isaac sat upright, rubbing at his tired eyes.

The young boy looked from the television screen to Scott and Melissa and then to John, his voice weak as he asked, “Can Stiles come home now?”

 _Soon_ , John told himself. _He’ll come home soon. He has to._


	14. Chapter 14

Chris had taken Isaac to bed and stayed with him there; the young boy had been struggling to fight sleep and was unable to keep his eyes open for longer than a few seconds at a time. However, every time Chris let go of him, the boy would get restless and get up again. So, after a few attempts of putting him to bed, Chris finally gave up and laid down with the boy.

Melissa pressed a soft kiss to Scott’s head before retiring to her room, believing no-one could hear her cry there.

John and Scott were left to watch the broadcast. They pretended to ignore the soft sounds of Melissa’s muffled cries and Isaac’s whimpers as Chris tried to calm him down.

They were still struggling to come to terms with everything that had happened that day: namely, Allison’s death.

John turned to look at Scott.

“Are you okay?” the man asked.

“I’ve got enough money saved up to buy Isaac his birthday presents,” Scott announced, avoiding the real question.

“Scott,” John started slowly, focusing his pale green eyes on the boy. “Be honest. Are you okay?”

Scott nodded, gnawing at his lip. The small nods turned into a slow shake as he whispered, “No.”

John pulled the boy into his arms.

“It just happened so fast,” Scott muttered. “I’ve lost her. And Stiles is still in danger. I know it was stupid for me to think that they’d both come home, but I just didn’t want to believe I could lose them.”

He turned his tear-filled eyes to John.

“How do you do it?”

John exhaled.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I always count my blessings by what I have. When I lost Claudia, I kept telling myself that I still had Stiles and everything was going to be okay. Then the mines caved in and we lost your dad and Isaac’s family and I told myself I still have Stiles and everything would be okay. When I heard your name and Allison’s called, I didn’t know what to think… I wanted to tell myself that I still had Stiles, but before I could, he volunteered. As soon as he spoke, I felt as if I had lost him. But he’s still alive. We may have lost Allison, and it hurts – it will for a long time, I’m not going to lie about that – but right now the only thing keeping me together is the fact that I have you, your mum, Chris and Isaac, and Stiles is still alive.”

Scott sighed and slumped against John’s side. He dropped his head to the man’s broad shoulder. “He’s lucky to have you as his dad.”

“You’re my son too,” John whispered, gently tousling Scott’s hair.

“I feel like I want to cry, but I can’t. I just… can’t,” Scott confessed.

“It’s okay,” John whispered. “It’ll take time to get over the shock. And when that time comes, it’s okay to cry. You don’t have to hide it.”

He pressed a tender kiss to the mess of Scott’s tousled hair.

“We’re here for you,” John promised.

They sat in silence, watching as Derek carefully lowered Stiles onto the ground of a small cave. He checked the boy over for any serious injuries before shrugging off his shredded backpack and pulling out his sleeping bag. He unzipped it completely and laid it across the ground. He reached across the small cave, gently grabbed Stiles’ shoulder, and rolled the small boy onto the blanket.

Stiles let out a small whimper.

“You okay?” Derek whispered, stroking aside a strand of hair that clung to the boy’s bloodied forehead.

“How many are left?” Stiles asked weakly.

“I’ve lost count,” Derek admitted.

John thought for a moment. He struggled to remember a number. He glanced at Scott, hoping the boy knew, but Scott returned the vacant look of confusion with a little bit of fear. They’d been through so much that they had also lost count.

Their attention was drawn to the sound of Stiles’ pathetic whimpers as he struggled with his bag. Derek reached forward and helped him slide his frail arms out of the straps.

“Sleeping bag. Blanket,” Stiles muttered.

“You really need some sleep,” Derek whispered, pulling out the other sleeping bag, unzipping it and laying it across the boy.

Stiles held up the edge of the plush fabric.

Derek looked at him, confused. It took him a moment before he took the hint and laid down next to towards Stiles, shuffling under the blanket and pulling the boy back into his warmth.

John inhaled deeply, feeling Scott’s shoulders tremble as the boy held in his laughter.

“Don’t you dare,” he warned Scott. “One comment and I’ll send you to bed.”

Scott sat upright, turning to show John his goofy smile, a ridiculous expression that was a result of a smug grin and a struggle to hold back his laughter.

John pointed a finger at the boy, his glare warning him not to make a sound.

Their moment was interrupted when Stiles chuckled quietly.

“What?” Derek whispered.

“I just realised something,” Stiles rasped.

Derek lowered his eyes to the boy’s face, lifting his brow quizzically.

“My mentor just lost a bet. I survived longer than a day.” Stiles pulled the small note out of his pocket and showed Derek. “And to add insult to injury, he had to send me the care package.”

John and Scott let out a collective, “Oooh”.

They glanced at each other. Both of them tried to smother their laughter at the thought of the sociopathic victor throwing a tantrum after losing a bet.

“He’s proving everyone wrong,” John muttered, sinking back into the thin cushions of the couch, the canvas of the covers of the cushion scratching at his bare arms.

There was a moment of quiet between the two tributes. It was obvious that they both wanted to talk about what had happened, but no one knew how to broach the topic.

Stiles broke the silence.

“Who’s Cora?” he asked cautiously.

“My sister,” Derek replied, sitting up and rummaging through the backpack. He pulled out a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap and taking a few sips before offering it to Stiles.

Stiles shook his head.

“Older?” the younger boy pursued.

“Younger,” Derek corrected. “There was three of us; my older sister, Laura, myself and little Cora.”

“Was?”

“They died in a fire.”

John was stunned for a minute.

Scott was silent.

Both bowed their heads respectfully as they heard Stiles whisper, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Derek replied as he settled back against the rocky wall of the cave, his bright eyes focused on the world beyond the cave.

Stiles curled up beneath the blanket, watching Derek with dreary eyes.

“I’ll never understand how you could do it,” Derek whispered.

Stiles looked confused. “Do what?”

“Volunteer.”

John noticed how Scott swallowed hard. He rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder reassuringly.

“You volunteered,” Stiles reminded the older boy.

“I volunteered in hopes that it would get me killed, because I have nothing left to lose and nothing left to live for. You, however… You have so much to lose, and yet you still volunteered for your friend.”

“Our families need Scott. He can hunt and forage. He can get them food and help them through the year. He can care for Isaac in a way I can’t. He can keep them safe and alive. Me?” Stiles fell quiet. His eyes dropped to the floor of the cave. “I can’t do any of that. They don’t need me. Being sent into the Games was probably the best thing I could do for them.”

Scott’s body shuddered. Glistening tears fell from his eyes as he violently shook his head.

“You know that’s not true,” Derek whispered.

“It is,” Stiles muttered, curling upon himself. “I’m a nuisance. Just another mouth to feed.”

“No,” Scott sobbed, fighting back sobs that made him stutter. “No. That’s not true.”

John’s heart sank, hot tears prickling at his own eyes. He felt lost – numb. He felt as if he had failed Stiles; if his son felt so worthless and thought so little of himself, John had failed him.

Derek was shocked by the boy’s words. “I’m sure they don’t see it that way.”

“My mother thought I was trying to kill her,” Stiles blurted out.

John felt sick. His son’s words were like a knife that impaled his heart.

“Melissa and my dad said it was because she was sick and she wasn’t in her right mind, but that didn’t change anything. When she died a few months later, my dad turned to alcohol and drank himself into a rage over and over. He reminded me every night that it had been my fault, that my mum was dead because of me.”

Stiles rubbed his tears away with the sleeve of his jacket.

 “He said it so often that I started to believe it, no matter what Scott or his mum said.” Stiles pulled his knees up to his chest. “That’s when the nightmares started. As if daily life wasn’t bad enough, it’d play over and over in my head: horrific images that would have me screaming myself awake... I guess that’s why the jabberjays and the tracker jackers didn’t affect me as much as they did you; I’ve heard those screams every day.”

 “You don’t think he really thinks that, do you?” Scott asked, his voice was strained by shock as the tears rolled down his cheeks.

John didn’t reply.

They both knew the answer.

Their moment of quiet was broken when the screen lit up with the Capitol emblem. The anthem silenced them, drawing their attention to the display of tributes who had died that day.

The monstrous face of Ennis flashed over the ceiling, his portrait framed by the bold lettering of ‘District 1’.

Scott snarled and muttered obscenities under his breath.

John would have told him off, but the sight of the Career just made the man’s stomach knot and churn. He felt nauseous at the memory of that that boy did.

The image faded, replaced by the photo of Jackson Whittemore, ‘District 3’. Next was the boy from District Four, Liam. He had chestnut brown hair and a youthful face. Next was another young boy, the tribute from District Seven, Theo. And, finally, the glowing lettering of ‘District 12’ lit up the screen, framing the beautiful portrait of Allison. Her expression confident and eyes focused, just how they would remember her.

The pictures faded and the broadcast returned to Stiles, exploiting his tearful reaction for the entertainment of the nation.

Stiles wiped away his tears and crawled back into the cave.

John subtly wiped away his falling tears, unnoticed by Scott. The boy rubbed at his bloodshot eyes with the sleeve of his shirt and tried to dry his tear-stained cheeks.

They watched as Derek shuffled over to the boy’s side, pulling Stiles into his arms.

Stiles didn’t fight it. He fell against the larger boy’s chest, letting Derek pull him into his firm arms and comforting warmth. He stayed there for a moment before he jolted upright. Stiles pulled back, looking at Derek with a suspicious glare.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asked.

“I can’t remember if it was real,” Stiles muttered.

“Whether what was real?”

Stiles shook his head and sat back against the cave wall. “It’s nothing… Just tracker jackers.”

“I might not know everything, but if you’re unsure of something, you can always ask,” Derek whispered.

“There were birds that dropped stuff – like bloody viscera – all over me,” Stiles started.

John and Scott exchanged stunned looks.

“Real or not real?” Stiles asked.

Derek thought about it for a moment. “Not real, as far as I know. I didn’t see any birds and you were only covered in mud and bites when I found you.”

Stiles nodded. “The fauna growing through my skin, real or not real?”

John’s shock turned into horror at the thought of his son living through such nightmares.

“Holy shit,” Scott whispered under his breath, jaw hanging open.

“Not real,” Derek replied.

“Kali attacking us, real or not?”

“Real.”

“She’s gone, right?” Stiles asked. He ran his fingers through his hair. “I remember the slide show but it’s a little foggy.”

“She’s gone,” Derek assured him.

“You, um…” Stiles couldn’t look Derek in the eye. A hot blush burnt at his cheeks as he fumbled about with his words.

Scott couldn’t help but laugh. He knew what Stiles was about to say.

John rolled his eyes.

“You kissed me, real or not real?”

Derek was quiet for a moment.

“Real,” Derek admitted.

Scott snorted. John gently slapped his arm, silencing him.

They watched as Stiles swallowed hard. “You like me, real or not real?”

“Real,” Derek replied without a beat of hesitation.

“Would you do it again?” Stiles asked.

Derek met his eye and smirked.

Stiles laughed, blushing as he dropped his gaze.

Scott laughter erupted. He wheezed breathlessly, toppling sideways across the couch. Tears welled in the corner of his eyes and his body trembled.

John glared at him. “Are you done?”

Scott fell silent after a minute, clutching his sides. He tried to regain his breath, panting, “Have you come to terms with your son loving another guy yet? Because this is about to become something for a mature audience.”

John rolled his eyes at Scott. He turned away from the boy and watched as Derek crept forward and pressed a tender kiss to the soft tussled hair atop the crown of Stiles’ head.

“Maybe when we’re feeling better,” he whispered as if it were a promise.

Scott pouted. “That was underwhelming.”

“For now, you should get some rest,” Derek continued. “Tomorrow, we’ll head to the cornucopia. If anyone’s left they’ll be there scavenging food supplies.”

Stiles nodded. He shuffled forward across the space of the small cave and laid beneath the blanket of their makeshift bed. Stiles patted the space beside him. Derek smiled and crawled in behind him. Stiles shuffled back into Derek’s warmth, heavy eyes falling shut.

The power for the District blinked out, not giving them enough power to see the rest of the arena.

“How many tributes _are_ left?” Scott asked.

John thought for a moment. “I don’t know.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Regardless of everything that has happened, he loves you,” Scott whispered. “Without a doubt. You are his whole world.”

John looked to Scott. “He loves you too.”

“What he said, he doesn’t mean it,” Scott whispered. “He’s scared.”

“We all are.”

John turned his attention to the muffled cries down the end of the small hallway.

“Go to your mum,” he instructed. “Tell her Stiles is okay, and stay with her for little while.”

Scott nodded. He rose to his feet and making his way down the hallway. John watched as the boy cautiously knocked at Melissa’s bedroom door before opening it. He walked over to his mum’s side and fell into her arms. She cradled his head and held him closed. Scott weakly grabbed at fistfuls of the cotton of her gown, final breaking his composure and letting himself cry.

The sounds of their sobs were muffled by the door as it creaked shut.

John peeked into the boys’ room, his eyes falling on the figures of Chris and Isaac, curled up beneath a thin blanket. The silver glow of the moonlight illuminated the tears that streaked their cheeks, having cried themselves to sleep.

John sighed.

It pained him to see them all like this.

 _It’ll be okay_ , John told himself. _I have them. And Stiles is alive_.


	15. Chapter 15

John woke early. He was too anxious to sleep for longer than an hour at a time. He dressed and left, finding Scott in the living room.

The boy was hunched over on the couch, his knees were tucked up to his chest and his dark eyes fixed on the flickering flames of the dwindling fire.

John rounded the couch and set another log down on the embers. The glowing tendrils of fire engulfed the log, consuming the wood and singeing the bark.

He clapped the dust off his hands as he rose to his feet. He made his way over to the couch and slumped down next to the boy.

“What’s up?” John asked, turning to look at Scott.

The boy swallowed hard.

“It all just hit me all of a sudden. It feels like I’ve been stabbed in the gut... I can’t lose him,” Scott whispered. “I’m scared.”

John pulled Scott into his arms. “I want you to take Isaac into the field today. Don’t watch the broadcast.”

“But we have to; it’s compulsory.”

“They can only enforce it if they catch you,” John countered.

Scott was silent for a second. “Is Stiles going to be okay?”

“I… I don’t know,” he admitted.

There was a moment of silence between them.

“I think we should have strawberries, rabbit and tea for breakfast,” John whispered. “Does that sound good?”

“I don’t think Isaac is going to fall for it,” Scott told him.

John shrugged. “We’ve got to try.”

He patted Scott’s knee and got up off of the couch.

Scott followed. He stepped outside and collected a rabbit that Chris had hunted, gutted and hung earlier that morning. He skinned it and brought it inside, placing it in a large pot. He set it aside and filled another smaller cauldron with water before carrying it over to the fire. He set it on the hook and pushed it over the fire to boil. He returned to the larger pot. He poured a small amount of water into the pot with the rabbit, lit the stove and set the pot atop of it to start cooking.

John chopped some vegetables and dropped them into the pot before tossing in a few chunks of honeycomb and sugar and stirring. He set the lid atop of the pot and left it to simmer, gathering the packet of the tea leaves and passing them to Scott.

The boy carried them over to the small cauldron over the fire and tossed a handful into the bubbling water.

They moved in silence, juggling pots and plates as they set up the luxurious breakfast.

They chopped strawberries and sliced apples, plating them up and setting them down on the table. Next they sliced up the rabbit meat and set it out among the roasted vegetables, dribbling the sauce across of it and placing the platter in the middle of the table.

Scott pulled the boiling cauldron away from the fire and strained the flavoured tea into a pot, scooping out the boiled leaves and setting them aside.

Melissa emerged from her room, eyes falling upon the feast that was set up on the table. Her chocolate-brown eyes flicked up to her son and then to John. “You know this won’t fool Isaac, right?”

They both nodded solemnly.

“That being said,” she continued, a sweet smile lifting her cheeks. “It was very thoughtful and it looks fantastic. Thank you both.”

Scott pointed at John. “It was his idea.”

Melissa smiled at John, but he didn’t take the credit.

“He helped get everything cooked,” John pointed out.

“And he hunted the rabbit,” Scott said, pointing at Chris, who emerged from the bedroom. He didn’t look like the man they knew: his usually-neatly-groomed beard was scruffy and wiry, his hair was dishevelled and his expression was more worn down than composed.

Isaac was bundled up in his arms, half-awake and burying his face in the curve of the man’s neck.

“What are you accusing me of, Scott?” Chris asked as he carefully set Isaac down in one of the creaking wicker chairs that encircled the dining table.

“Nothing,” Melissa assured him. “He’s just thanking you for hunting this morning.”

Isaac blinked his heavy eyes open. Any other day, the sight of a succulent honey-glazed roast and fresh fruit would have filled him with enough joy that they risked killing him, but he caught on quickly. He narrowed a suspicious glare at Scott.

Melissa dished him a plate of food which he scowled at.

John felt his heart drop when the boy gently shoved the plate back into the middle of the table.

Melissa lifted her eyes to John, her expression a mix of apology and pain.

He stepped around the table to pour her a glass of tea and whispered, “Worth a shot.”

Scott pulled the plate back in front of Isaac. Isaac tried to push the food away again, but Scott refused to accept the boy’s protest, setting it down in front of him again.

“No,” Isaac cried.

“Isaac, eat,” Scott instructed.

“No!” the boy screeched.

Melissa opened her mouth to tell Scott to leave him be, but the boy beat her to it.

“What would Stiles think if he saw you refusing to eat, huh?” Scott shouted. “Chris and John went through so much trouble to get this food for the least you could do is shut up and eat it!”

“Scott,” John said firmly.

“What?!” the boy retorted.

In the moment of silence, the boy heard soft sobs.

Isaac hung his head, his shoulders trembling as silent tears fell from his eyes.

Scott exhaled heavily. He shuffled closer to Isaac’s side and pulled the boy into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Scott whispered, petting down Isaac’s curls and gently rocking the boy. “I didn’t mean to get angry.”

Isaac sniffed back his tears.

Scott tried to put on a smile. “Why don’t you have a little bit – just some fruit and a little bit of the meat – and then we’ll go out into the field, yeah?”

“But we have to watch the Games,” Isaac muttered, his voice disturbed by hiccups.

“Not today, sweetheart,” Melissa whispered, fetching Isaac a glass of water. She passed it to Scott who helped the boy take small sips.

Isaac set the glass down, looking up to Melissa with wide blue eyes. “Why not?”

“Just…” Her words failed her. “Please.”

“Is Stiles going to be okay?” the boy asked, panicked.

“I…” There was no point in lying. Melissa sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Did something happen?” Isaac cried.

“No, nothing happened,” Scott assured him.

He passed Isaac a slice of apple, watching as the boy cautiously took it from him and nibbled at the crunchy fresh flesh.

“He went to sleep the same time you did. The rest of the broadcast was really boring,” he lied.

“So he’ll be okay?” Isaac whimpered.

“Of course he’ll be okay,” Scott whispered.

“Scott-“ Chris started.

Scott turned on him, his glare piercing the man. He spoke through gritted teeth, annunciating every syllable. “ _Stiles will be okay_.”

They ate in silence.

Scott cleared away the dishes and took Isaac to get dressed.

John stored the remaining food away for a later meal while Melissa and Chris bathed and dressed.

Isaac bolted out of the bedroom and gave John a tight hug.

The boy whispered, “I know he’ll be okay”, before taking Scott’s hand and skipping out into the streets and making their way into the fields where they’d be safe from the broadcast.

As if on cue, the TV blinked on.

John wheeled around, watching as Stiles and Derek cautiously made their way across the open field and towards the cornucopia.

“Get to the high ground,” he heard Derek say, watching Stiles’ back as they crossed the field. They passed the podiums on which they had started the Games and crept into the shadows of the large structure that had been scavenged for supplies.

John watched as Derek lowered his axe and helped Stiles climb up onto the roof of the cornucopia.

Chris and Melissa joined him, sitting down on the couch and staring at the screen.

The broadcast was silent.

“It’s just us,” Stiles whispered.

“Oh God,” Melissa whispered, her heart dropping as she fought back tears.

“It’s not as if we didn’t know this was coming,” Derek reminded him. The older boy dropped his weapon, the metal grip and axe blade clattering as it struck the roof of the cornucopia.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked.

“You have someone to go home to. You deserve this victory.” Derek spread his arms, exposing his chest as an open target. “Go ahead, kill me.”

Tears prickled Stiles’ eyes as he shook his head.

“It never would have worked,” Derek sighed. “If – somehow – we both survive this, I’d go back to Two and you’d go back to Twelve. We’d never be together.”

“I don’t care,” Stiles sobbed, streaming tears clearing away the dirt on his face. “I’m not going to kill you, Derek. This is _our_ victory. It’s what you trained for. It’s what you deserve.”

“I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

Stiles froze. His body shuddered as tears rolled down his freckled cheeks. He blinked heavily, crystal-like droplets falling from the tip of his chin. The falling tears crashed against the roof of the cornucopia. He sniffed back the tears, trying as hard as he could to regain his composure.

“I won’t do it,” he said firmly.

“Stiles,” Derek started slowly.

“No,” Stiles interrupted, burying his hand in the pocket of his jacket to pull out a small handful of plump black berries. He glanced down at them and let his breath fall from his lungs. He brought his hand to his mouth.

John gasped and Melissa yelped, tightening her grip on John’s arm. Chris’ cries were choked by shock.

“No!” Derek howled, sprinting across the cornucopia to Stiles’ side. He grabbed the boy’s wrists, pulling his hand away from his mouth. He shoved Stiles back and pinned the boy’s slender body against the metal plating of the roof.

Stiles let out a pained yelp. He cried out, frustrated and desperately trying to hold his fist shut.

“Drop them,” Derek ordered.

Stiles winced. He gritted his teeth and shook his head.

John wanted to cry.

 _This can’t be how it ends_.

“Drop them!”

The smaller boy let out a heartbroken wail as the berries rolled out of his hand. The plump fruit rolled across the metal sheeting of the rooftop, falling away from his grasp.

They watched as Stiles kicked about helplessly, his heavy boots thumping the roof of the cornucopia as he tried without success to break free of Derek’s hold. He let out a gut-wrenching cry before collapsing back against the buckling metal sheet. His body shuddered with violent sobs.

Melissa turned towards John, collapsing against his chest and sobbing weakly against his shirt. John bundled her up in his arms, holding her close and burying his face in the mess of her dark curls. He inhaled the sweet scent of her strawberry shampoo and tried to calm himself.

 _Stiles is okay_ , John reminded himself. _Stiles is okay._

He turned his eyes back to the television and watched as Derek lifted the boy’s limp body up into his arms. He patted at the soft mess of Stiles’ unkempt hair and whispered sweetly to the boy, holding him close in the warmth and security of his arms.

Stiles clawed at his jacket, his tears seeping through the torn jacket and dampening his shirt.

Reluctantly, Derek set the boy down on the rooftop, sitting back to look Stiles in the eye. He opened his mouth to say something but was silenced by a sharp whistle.

Derek jolted, choking, coughing and sputtering. He fell backwards, an arrow jutting from his chest.

Stiles gasped.

“Derek!” Stiles cried out scurrying over to Derek’s side. He stripped off his jacket and pressed it against Derek’s wound.

“Derek, stay with me,” he pleaded, tears streaking his face.

The older boy’s breathing was shallow, his broken gasps gurgling as his body trembled. He lifted his hand to Stiles’, ignoring the blood that gushed from the where an arrow had penetrated his chest.

“It’s okay,” Derek rasped.

“No, Derek, stay with me.”

A soft chuckle echoed through the air. The camera zoomed out to show the approaching figure. Her thick boots thumped against the metal plating, catching Stiles’ attention.

“Kate,” Chris gasped.

“Sorry,” Kate said without the slightest hint of remorse in her voice. A cynical smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I had to take him out first or else I might have had a challenge on my hands.”

Melissa squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face in John’s shirt.

John cupped the back of her head, holding her close. His breath was thin and his heart was pounding.

Chris turned his weary eyes to John. His lips were trembling and he looked scared. “I want Stiles to win this, I really do.”

“It’s okay,” John muttered. He gently patted down Melissa’s unruly hair. Her frail body was trembling and hot tears of fear were seeping into John’s shirt. “Either way, family wins.”

He shocked himself at how calm and collected he was in that morning, considering his son’s life was hanging by a thread.

He turned to watch the broadcast.

Kate raised her bow and let another arrow fly.

Stiles rolled to the side. The arrow struck the metal plating and clattered as it rolled to Stiles’ side. He picked it up and snapped it in half. He flourished the arrow’s tip like a knife, lunging forward and swinging at Kate.

She caught his hand, disarming him and planting her solid boot in his gut.

Stiles skidded across the roof, rolling across the smooth plating. He caught a hold of the edge and hurled himself back up. He stumbled a little, staggering and grunting in pain as he rose to his feet. He heaved in rugged breaths as tears fell from his eyes.

John’s heart was racing, the pounding blood in his eardrums dulling the sounds around him.

Kate’s eyes fell on Stiles’ wrist.

“Where did you get that?” she growled.

Stiles looked down at what had caught her attention: Allison’s necklace.

John glanced at Chris.

“It’s the family crest,” the man announced, silenced by the broadcast.

“Where did you get it?!” Kate screamed.

“Allison,” Stiles answered.

“Where’d she get it?”

“What’s it to you?” Stiles yelled. Then it struck him. “Argent… That’s right, Chris had a sister. You were just a baby when he left District Two, weren’t you?”

“Shut up!” Kate shrieked. She lifted her crossbow and fired an arrow into Stiles’ leg.

Stiles let out an agonising cry as he collapsed to one knee.

John pulled Melissa close, feeling her jolt at the sound of the boy’s cries.

Stiles tore the arrow from the wound and glared up at her, panting ruggedly.

“Oh, darling,” Kate cooed. “Did you really think you stood a chance?”

“Chris, forgive me,” Stiles muttered to himself.

Chris bowed his head, tears welling in his eyes.

John knew what he was thinking: of course Stiles was forgiven.

“These arrows are made in District Two,” Stiles announced, nodding towards the half in Kate’s hand. He reached for the other half of the broken shaft. “They’re colour coded for different uses: the red tips are for explosive, white tips are for normal, yellow are for flash bangs, and blue are for electrical ones that have a charge beneath the tip that top three hundred volts. They’re all used in different ways, but – aside from the normal ones – they all have a trigger mechanism beneath the tip with wiring running down shaft, specialised for detonating at the optimal time to stun, incapacitate, maim or kill your prey.”

“You’re pretty smart. But what’s your point?”

Stiles shuffled over to Derek’s side and continued, “If the shaft of the coloured tips is broken then the circuit isn’t complete, which means it’s a live wire.”

“Is there a point to your rambling?” Kate asked, upset and obviously quickly losing her patience.

“Yeah. I’m distracting you,” Stiles admitted.

He hurled a water bottle at her.

The cap fell off, leaving the water to spill from the bottle.

Kate instinctively moved to block the incoming projectile. She swung the broken arrow to deflect it, the live wires coming into contact with the water. She let out a savage scream as the frayed wires sent a lethal amount of voltage through her body.

Stiles turned away and burying his face in Derek’s jacket, flinching as he heard her body thump against the ground and the thundering cannon fire overhead.

There was a second of silence.

Chris flinched.

“Derek?” they heard Stiles gasp, panicked as he ran over to the older boy’s side.

“No,” Melissa gasped, finally turning her face towards the TV.

Stiles pressed his hands around the shaft of the arrow that protruded from Derek’s chest.

“No, it can’t end like this,” the woman whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Derek groaned, his eyes fading as heavy eyelids threatened to fall shut. Speckles of blood were splattered across Derek’s lips, his golden skin growing pale as thick red blood began to pool around him. He wheezed, eyelids fluttering as he looked up at Stiles.

“Oh, thank God,” Stiles gasped. “Stay with me, Derek. Hold on.”

Derek’s head wavered slightly. His heavy eyes falling shut for a second.

“No, Derek! Keep your eyes open. Please. Stay with me.”

“You… deserve… to win,” Derek muttered between broken gasps. “Go home… to your family.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Stiles whispered. He bent forward and pressed a soft kiss against Derek’s forehead. “I love you.”

Tears glistened in Derek’s eyes as he returned Stiles’ loving gaze, unable to speak.

There was a thundering calamity outside.

Melissa squealed and Chris ran out to inspect the noise.

John carefully placed a hand on her shoulder, telling her to stay put while he followed his friend out into the streets of the District.

It was chaos.

People were overturning carts of coal and hurling rocks at the screen out the front of the Justice Building. Hordes of enraged people attacked peacekeepers while others set fire to resources.

John and Chris pushed their way through the crowd, sprinting up the steps of the Justice Building and turning back to face the ocean of people. He reached his hand out towards Chris, pulling his friend out of the chaotic mess of limbs and screams.

John drew in a deep breath and bellowed, “Enough!”

The crowds simmered down, all eyes turning to him.

“This is how you show your respect?” he howled across the District. “You think this is what Stiles and Allison would want? You think our kids would want to see such violence? You think they’d want to see you waste what precious resources we have, the resources that they would selflessly sacrifice for the sake of others?”

The crowd was silent, their heads bowed in guilt, shame and remorse.

“You know damn well that they would not want this! So don’t you dare disrespect them like this!”

Stiles’ heartbroken cries echoed across the District, the painful sound ringing in their ears.

The joyful commentator cut in, his voice disturbing them as he announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, the victor of the seventy-fourth Hunger Games: Stiles Stilinski.”


	16. Chapter 16

“What the hell happened?” Scott gasped, looking around at the mess that filled the streets of the District. He edged his way through the crowd and towards John and Chris.

John looked around, eyes wide as panic struck him. “Where’s Isaac?”

“We’re playing hide and seek,” Scott replied. “He’s hiding. So I left him out in the fields alone.”

Rage brewed behind the John and Chris’ eyes.

“He’s at _home_ ,” Scott answered more honestly, a little shocked at their lack of trust in him. “Oh my God, what do you take me for?”

John sighed and gently smacked the boy upside his head.

Chris swung an arm around Scott’s shoulders, and guided the boy back through the crowd and down the street. They stepped into the house.

“Is it true?” Isaac asked, bounding to their sides. “Did Stiles win?”

John nodded, watching the boy’s face light up with joy.

“Isaac, before you get too excited, I need to talk to you about something.” he said quietly, his voice low and cautious as he rested his hand on the smaller boy’s shoulder and levelled his eyes with Isaac. “You see, after something like this, people change. When Stiles comes home, he might not be the Stiles we knew.”

“I don’t understand,” the boy muttered, his brow creased with confusion.

“When Stiles comes home, he might be upset. He might be quiet and he might not talk to us. He might be distant. You might have to repeat things a few times before he hears you. He might be overly emotion and cry at random times, or he could be temperamental, he might get angry or frustrated. But it’s not your fault and it’s not his either.”

“It’ll be like he was when he lost his mum,” Scott whispered.

They were stunned silent; Scott had hit the nail right on the head.

“They got Derek out of the arena,” Melissa added, breaking the silence. “But no-one knows whether he’s alive or not.”

John sighed. He looked down at Isaac, the boy’s face screwed up as he fought back tears. He pulled the boy into his arms.

“I want Stiles!” Isaac wailed, tears seeping into John’s shirt. “I want Stiles home and I want him to be happy!”

“I know, kiddo,” John whispered, holding the boy close. “We all do.”

 

“It’s on,” Scott called across the house.

The family scrambled into the living room from the various spaces of the house. Melissa settled down on the couch beside Scott. John sat next to her, sitting Isaac in his lap as Chris pulled one of the chairs from the dining set over.

Danny Māhealani’s unhuman face lit up the screen, his smiles disturbing. His voice boomed across the speakers as he introduced his guest, “Ladies and gentlemen, the victor of the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, the sweetheart from District Twelve: Stiles Stilinski.”

Two large doors opened from the centre of the stage beneath the large screens and Stiles stepped into the light.

He was dressed in pressed pants and a pale grey shirt with a gold tie around the collar, the soft silky fabric tied into an eldredge knot. The ensemble was completed by a mocha-brown vest and a crisp white jacket. A folded golden handkerchief was perched in his pocket and the cuffs of his shirt were decorated by two large diamond cufflinks.

“Look at him,” Melissa whispered in awe.

The audience roared and Stiles waved to them. He didn’t smile like he did last time. He just walked across the stage to join Danny. He shook the presenter’s hand and sat down in the small chair.

“Stiles,” Danny started, his voice a little sadder than usual – something close to human emotion. “Before we start, I have to say that I am sorry for your loss.”

Stiles nodded. “Thank you.”

“But we’re all wondering, what was it like to meet someone and fall in love so quickly, only to lose him?”

They saw Stiles swallow hard, struggling to hold himself together as he answered, “It’s… indescribable. It was a strange sense of comfort in a place where you could swear you couldn’t trust anyone. I cannot describe what it was like to fall in love. But if it came to it, I would lay my life in his hands a million times over without any hesitation. To lose him…”

His words fell short. He brushed aside the tears that fell from his eyes.

“Do you think it ever would have worked out between the two of you?” Danny asked. “Him being from District Two and you from Twelve.”

“I would have liked to try,” Stiles replied.

“I’m sorry,” Danny whispered, leaning forward to rest his hand on Stiles’ arm. “I know it hurts, but can I ask you about Allison?”

The house was silent.

Melissa shuffled closer to Scott, lifting her arms around his shoulders and pulling him close. She reached further across to hold onto Chris’ hand.

Stiles nodded.

“What you did for her and Kira was honourable, something that has never happened before in the Games. No other tribute has ever taken the time to stay by the side of another tribute as they died, and never have they done something as selfless and… breathtakingly beautiful as you did.”

The screen divided into two panels: one showing the broadcast of the interview and the other showing the slideshow of image. The screens on the stage lit up with the same photographs of Kira laying among the glowing fungus and flowers and Allison laying among the white petals of lilies, velvety roses and stalks of lavender, with a crown of daises and wolfsbane woven around her head.

The screen divided into two panels: one showing the broadcast of the interview and the other showing the slideshow of image.

The crowd applauded, not the roar of joy they had expressed earlier but a clap of admiration and pride.

“I just have to ask,” Danny continued. “Why?”

“Because they deserved better. They weren’t weak – in fact, Allison was the strongest person I know and Kira was so brave for someone so young – and they don’t deserve to be shamed in their death.”

The applause grew louder.

Chris and Melissa turned to John.

“You raised a good kid,” Chris stated, his husky voice warming John from the inside out.

“He takes after his father,” Melissa said in agreement.

“No,” John whispered. “He takes after his mother.”

Isaac’s glistening sapphire eyes were fixed on the photo of Allison.

Scott glanced at the boy, reaching across his mother to take Isaac’s hand. He gave it a gentle squeeze.

“She’s beautiful,” Isaac whispered.

“She always was,” John agreed.

Danny interrupted them, asking Stiles, “How does it feel to be victor?”

As soon as the words left Danny’s mouth, Stiles’ smile faltered and a wave of self-hated washed over him.

He seemed distanced from himself, his eyes were focused on the screen where Allison’s image had been.

“Not as good as you’d think,” he replied.

“Do you regret volunteering?” Danny asked, more honestly.

Scott cringed, watching as Stiles shook his head and replied, “Not for a second.”

“Are you glad to be out of the arena and back in the Capitol?” Danny perked up, earning a reluctant cheer from the crowd.

“I mean no offence to the lovely people of the Capitol, but I’d much rather be at home.”

“In District Twelve?” Danny squinted in confusion, shocked that the boy would choose the District of poverty over fame and fortune.

Stiles nodded.

“I want to see my family,” the boy answered honestly. “But I don’t think I’d ever be able to face Chris again.”

Chris bowed his head.

“Who’s Chris?” Danny asked.

“He’s Allison’s dad… Kate’s brother…”

Stiles didn’t talk after that.

Danny cut the interview short. The Capitol anthem played them off as a separate presenter began to replay the ‘highlights of the 74th Hunger Games’.

The power cut out.

“Alright, boys, go set the table and get ready for dinner,” Melissa instructed.

John waited for Isaac and Scott to busy themselves with clattering dishes and joyful chatter before turning to Chris.

“After everything he’s done, do you hate Stiles?” he asked Chris.

Chris shook his head. “He did what he could. He kept her safe, he held her close, and he respected in her death.”

He drew in a deep breath fighting off the tears that brewed in his glassy eyes.

“He did more that I could have ever asked.”

“And Kate?”

“That wasn’t my Kate,” Chris said. He turned to look at John, his bright eyes glittering as he looked at his friend. “You should be proud of your boy.”

John’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are interested, Stiles' outfit inspired by this: http://images.rapgenius.com/41c9cd6d4c64f247f68470e7d188bf93.460x276x1.jpg


	17. Chapter 17

John stepped into the living room. His shoulders dropped as he looked at the depressing sight before him. Isaac was curled up in Scott’s arms with their legs stretched across the couch and resting in Melissa’s lap as she rubbed soothing circles between the smaller boy’s shoulder blades.

Chris sat by the fire, tossing a new log on and poking at it with the metal rod to stir the ambers. The wood crackled and shreds of bark were singed and consumed by the flickering flames.

“Did anyone sleep last night?” John asked. He, too, was exhausted after lying in bed for hours, but never closing his eyes. The Games were over, yes, and they were happy that Stiles was coming home, but they couldn’t shake everything that had happened and they weren’t sure they were ready for what was to come.

Melissa and Scott shook their heads.

“Has anyone had breakfast?”

“Not hungry,” Isaac mumbled, his face was buried in Scott’s shirt.

“You have to eat something,” Scott whispered, patting the boy’s rugged curls. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, but his dark irises glittered with love and concern for the younger boy.

“Not hungry,” Isaac repeated, a little more agitated.

“You don’t even want strawberries?” Melissa asked.

Isaac perked up. He bolted upright.

“Maybe,” he replied, trying to appear shy and elusively pensive.

“I thought the strawberries were for your perfumes and shampoo?” John whispered.

“I can go without.” She looked up at her friend. The dark depths of her eyes were weary and tired, but kind as she said, “They’re in the cupboard, on the bottom shelf.”

John nodded and dragged his feet into the small kitchenette. He collected the small woven basket of strawberries from the cupboard. Only a few ripe strawberries were left on the soft cotton handkerchief that lined the basket. John set them on top of the counter before collecting a small cauldron and filling it with water.

He brought the cauldron over to Chris.

The man smiled as he took it from his friend and set it over the flames, keeping a watchful eye over it.

John handed the small basket to Melissa.

“Thank you,” she whispered holding out the small basket and offering the sweet fruit to the boys.

Isaac quickly babbled a thank you as he snatched the strawberry out of Melissa’s hand. He hid his smirk behind the plump red strawberry as Melissa smiled at him. He bit into the juicy flesh, wincing at the bitter sweetness. He slowly nibbled at it, savouring every second of it. He licked at the droplets of juice that stained his lips and dribbled down through the creases of his hands.

Melissa chucked at the younger boy as Scott rolled his eyes. She reached past the slender boy and offered the small basket to Scott. He said thank you and took one.

John watched the boy’s delight, smiling at the moment of bliss.

Isaac took his last bite of the strawberry and handed the wilting green stalk to Scott who set it down in a small pile on the floor. He looked pleadingly at Melissa and she smiled, offering him another strawberry.

Chris pulled the cauldron off of the boil, rising to collect the tea leaves from the kitchen cupboard. He stirred them through and left them to boil for a minute. He stirred through the tea leaves and spooned them out of the water. He poured the tea into three mugs and handed them out to John and Melissa. Melissa mouthed “Thank you” and gratefully sipped at her tea.

John took the mug with a weak smile, standing next to his friend as they watched the boys enjoy the sweet fruit.

“Three days and then Stiles will be home,” Chris whispered.

“Then we’ll be faced with a big decision I never thought we’d have to make,” John replied, keeping his voice low so that the boys couldn’t hear. He glanced at his Chris. “The rules are that the victor has to live in the protection of the Victor’s Village, but-“ He looked around the house, at the homely walls that had surrounded him since before his son was born. “I don’t know if we’d ever be able to leave this place. And we’re definitely not leaving without you lot.”

“That’s going to cause issues,” Chris replied. “The rule covers the victor and their family – as in, _you_. As much as we say we’re a family, it only goes so far. Besides, if by some miracle, Derek survived, do you really think that this house can fit six of you?”

“Seven,” John corrected.

Chris looked at him, confused.

John met his friend’s gaze. “We’re not leaving you alone.”

Christ smiled gratefully, but it quickly faded as he continued, “My point is, we struggle to house five, so how are we meant to fit another person, let alone two people, in this house?”

“I don’t know.” John sighed, watching Isaac’s face light up with a delighted smile for the first time that week. “But rules are rules, and I can’t take Stiles away from them again.”

The television blinked on, silencing them.

“Stiles,” Isaac chirped, sitting upright.

The camera was focused on Stiles as he stepped up to the microphone to give the first of his speeches along the victory tour.

He was dressed in a grey hooded jacked, the rippled of fabric gathering around his neck.

“Look behind him,” Scott muttered. His voice was full of delight as he pointed out the second figure on stage. “Derek’s alive.”

Melissa sighed with relief and Isaac couldn’t wipe the smile off of his face.

Chris shushed them, watching as Stiles glanced down at the notecards in his hands and began, ‘’Derek and I would like to celebrate our victory with you-“

The broadcast was set aside in a separate screen as the side of the television screen lit with the portraits of the tributes from the District, their names set below the faces.

DISTRICT 1: ENNIS.

DISTRICT 1: KALI.

It was so strange to match the names to the faces of the dead children.

Stiles continued his speech, “And we would like to thank the Capitol for bringing us together.”

“It sounds scripted,” Scott muttered.

“He’s terrified, Scott,” Chris announced, stepping closer to the couch. “They just pulled him out of the Games and put him before a crowd of people who watched him fight to the death against the tributes of their District. How would you feel?”

Scott thought for a second. He was quiet as he replied, “Terrified.”

“Exactly.”

The speech continued. Stiles’ hands were visibly shaking as he read the cue cards, “It was the bond of love that was forged in the crucible of the Games that was our greatest prize. It was love – true love – that helped us bear our hardships. It mends the heart, disbands loneliness and gives meaning to our lives. It is a special kind of love that won over the fear of our mortality and gave us the will to survive, to live and to win.”

District One was silent.

John watched as Stiles glanced over his shoulder at Derek.

The older boy nodded slowly, offering Stiles a kind smile and encouraging him to continue.

Stiles turned back to the audience, his anxiety leaking through the cracks in his composure. His voice was scratchy and broke slightly when he spoke.

“We also want to share with you the sorrow of your losses. The tributes of this District, Kali and Ennis, were great and noble warriors who brought honour to their families and to the people of their District.” Stiles glanced from the speech to the large portraits of the tributes. He swallowed hard and looked down at the cue cards. “We are, all of us, united. Both victors and vanquished. We are serving a common purpose: the power and glory of the Capitol. Beacon Hills today, Beacon Hills tomorrow, Beacon Hills forever.”

There was a moment of silence before the crowd roared in outraged, men and women shouting, “Tell us what you really think”, “Do you really care?” and other cries that were lost in the tides of sounds.

The Capitol anthem began to play, only partially drowning out the rage of the crowd.

They watched as Stiles stepped back from the microphone. Derek reached out for him, taking a hold of his hand. He gave it a gentle squeeze, just enough for the boy to know he was there.

The anthem finished and Derek lifted his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, guiding the boy offstage. They were escorted back through the elegant double doors of the Justice Building.

Melissa sighed heavily.

“Poor darling,” she whispered, hanging her head.

“He was just reading the speech,” Isaac objected, a hint of confusion in his voice. “Why are they being so mean to him?"

“Some people don’t like speeches,” Scott replied. It wasn’t the complete truth, but it wasn’t a lie either.

“That’s weird,” Isaac muttered. “And mean.”

Scott glanced at the adults.

John took a deep breath. “Why don’t you two go and get dressed? The broadcast is going to be pretty boring for the next couple of days. It’s just going to be a lot of speeches and Capitol presenters talking about the stuff that has happened. Why don’t you boys go play in the fields? Maybe go find some more strawberries?”

Isaac bolted upright in his seat, his voice screeching with excitement as he asked Scott, “Can we?”

Scott tousled his hair. “Alright. You need to go and get out a shirt, jeans, socks, boots and your jacket.”

“Shirt, jeans, socks, boots and jacket,” the boy repeated, rising to his feet and toddling off to their room, muttering the same words over and over.

“I can’t hunt if he’s there, so do you need any plants or berries I can forage?” Scott asked.

“Strawberries and mint would be nice,” Melissa replied.

“Honeycomb,” Chris added. “And look around for wild turkey feathers, I need to fix some of the fletchings on my arrows.”

“Gosh, you don’t ask for much, do you?” Scott muttered sarcastically, slowly rising to his feet.

“And flowers for your mum,” John whispered as he collected the pile of strawberry sepals.

“That’s a given,” Scott replied, quiet enough that his mother wouldn’t hear. “I’ll say they’re from Isaac.”

Melissa’s head whipped around. “Have you got Isaac’s birthday presents yet?”

Scott shook his head. “I’ve been occupied keeping him away from the broadcast of the Games.”

“What were you going to get him?” Chris asked. “I can grab it tomorrow morning when I trade in some of my hunt.”

“A new shirt, strawberries – but if we find some today, don’t bother – and a couple of pieces of chocolate,” Scott replied.

“Scott!” Isaac cried, sprinting into the room, dressed only in his jeans. He waved his socks about before the boy’s face. “The holes are too big,” he whispered, disheartened.

“Pass them here,” Melissa cooed, reaching out for the socks. She turned them about in her hands before looking up at John and Scott. “They’re beyond repair.”

“You can borrow one of my pairs,” Scott instructed, ushering the boy back to his room.

“You can wear my socks, Scott,” John called after him. “They’re in the bottom of the cupboard. They’re too big for Isaac but they might fit you.”

“Thanks,” Scott replied.

He stopped just before Chris.

“Forget the strawberries,” he whispered. “Shirt, socks, and however much chocolate you can get with the change. The money is in the jar on top of the fridge.”

Chris nodded and watched as Scott trailed after Isaac who had returned to getting dressed. They could hear the younger boy’s frustrated grunts and the thrashing of fabric.

“Scott, I’m stuck,” the boy cried out.

Melissa and John tried their hardest to smother their laughter.

Their joy was short lived, however, as an eerie sense of tension fell over them and a blanket of quiet settled over the house.

They tried to busy themselves, pouring more tea and sipping at it as they glanced at the TV, not listening to a word the commentators were saying.

The boys emerged from the bedroom, running to Melissa’s side to give her a kiss on the cheek before scurrying out through the front door.

As soon as they had left and the door rattled shut behind them the presentation for District Two began.

The screen lit up with the names and the faces of the District’s tributes.

DISTRICT 2: DEREK HALE.

DISTRICT 2: KATE ARGENT.

The mayor of District Two introduced Stiles and gestured for the boy to step forward.

Stiles took a deep breath and reluctantly let go of Derek’s hand. He stepped up to the microphone.

Derek’s podium was bare.

“Poor kid,” Chris whispered. “I remember his family, they were nice people.”

“Were? What happened?” John asked.

“Just before I left District Two, I got word that their house was on fire. I ran to help but by the time we got there, the house collapsed and the rest of his family were trapped inside. Derek was the only one who had been pulled out in time. His mother, his father and his two sisters, they… they died in the fire.” Chris took a deep breath. “There were a lot of rumours that Derek’s uncle lit the fire, or that it was a jealous ex who took the breakup badly, but… no-one knows. All we know is he has no-one left.”

“He has us now,” Melissa replied.

The camera turned to Gerard Argent – a previous victor of the Games – who stood before Kate’s portrait.

Chris froze.

John glanced at his friend, gently resting a hand on Chris’ arm. “Chris? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Chris said breathlessly as he blinked himself back to reality. “That’s my dad.”

Before he had the chance to say anything else, the camera turned back to Stiles and the speech began.

“I offer my condolences to the families of the fallen tributes from the seventy-fourth Hunger Games and those before it. Kate was strong, she fought valiantly.” Stiles looked at Gerard. “And I’m sorry that I was the one who took her from you.”

Gerard nodded solemnly.

“I know there is nothing I can say that could help ease the pain of your loss,” Stiles continued. “And I’m not going to say that I’m celebrating my survival. All I did was survive. I will not stand upon a throne made from the corpses of the children who died in the Games.”

The crowd was silent.

John swallowed hard.

Gerard was the first to move. He raised three fingers to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against them before raising them in a salute.

A small sigh of relief fell from Chris’ lips.

The rest of the District followed his lead.

Derek stepped forward to Stiles’ side, mirroring the gesture.

Stiles watched in shock, his hands trembling as he too returned the funeral salute.

Peacekeepers stormed the stage, pulling Stiles and Derek back through the Justice Building.

The crowd erupted in rebellious shouts.

The anthem did not play.

They watched helplessly as peacekeepers pulled Gerard from his daughter’s podium.

Melissa gasped and clamped her hand over her mouth.

One peacekeeper drew his weapon and pressed it to the back of the elderly man’s skull.

“No,” Chris muttered breathlessly.

John felt his breath hitch in his throat.

The peacekeeper pulled the trigger.

The broadcast was cut short, returning to the disturbingly cheery faces of the Capitol representatives and commentators.

Chris’ knees fell from beneath him.

John caught him before he hit the ground.

Chris was stunned, body swaying as John set him down on the couch next to Melissa.

Numb tears streamed through the cracks in his composure. His lips quivered with shaky breaths. His body was trembling violently.

“He’s in shock,” Melissa whispered. “Can you grab a blanket?”

She held him close, whispering comforting words to him as John fetched a blanket from one of the bedrooms.

Chris’ chapped lips trembled moved around words until he found his voice. “I’ve lost them all,” Chris rasped, his husky voice scratching at his throat. “Victoria, Allison, Kate and my dad… I have no-one.”

“You have us,” Melissa whispered. “We’re not leaving you. You’re not alone, Chris. Okay? We’re here for you.”

Melissa pulled him closer, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders and holding him tight. She pressed a tender kiss to his creased forehead.

John laid the blanket across the two of them, sitting down and patting his friend’s arm. “We may not be blood and bone, but we’re a family.”

Chris seemed to regain a fraction of his composure. “Oh God, what about Stiles? He’s going to blame himself for this. For all of it.”

“Do you blame him for it?” John asked.

“No,” Chris replied breathlessly. “No, of course not.”

“Then when he gets home, tell him that,” John instructed, resting a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You two will need each other.”

John turned and walked over to the cupboard. He pulled open the door, the hinges groaning as it swung back. He reached up to the top shelf and collected the dust-covered bottle of whiskey.

“John,” Melissa said warningly.

The man ignored her, rinsing out two mugs and pouring a small amount of the golden liquor. He brought the mug over to Chris and offered it to him.

Chris took it, eyeing John suspiciously.

“It’s just one drink,” John whispered, raising it in a toast. “To the fallen, the family we will always love and never forget.”

Chris raised his glass and repeated, “To the fallen.”

They tapped the edges of the clay mugs together and raised them to their lips. The liquor burned their throats as they swallowed it.

John felt the whiskey warm his insides. He took Chris’ empty glass and set it down in the sink. He picked up the bottle, staring at it for a second longer than he should have. The golden swirls of liquid were enticing, the allurement undeniable.

John drew in a deep breath, he knew that Chris and Melissa were watching him. He screwed the lid back on and set the bottle away on the top shelf before returning to his friends.

“I’m proud of you,” Chris whispered, gently clapping his hand against John’s arm.

“I can’t stand this,” Melissa growled, standing up and turning away from the television. She tried to busy herself, moving containers about and collecting various ingredients to make herbal teas and remedies.

Chris and John settled down on the couch, not watching the replays or listening to the piercing screeches of the commentator’s voices.

“How long before the next speech?” Chris asked.

John glanced at the small countdown in the corner of the screen. “Just under three hours.”

“The power will cut out before the speeches are done,” Chris muttered.

No sooner had the words left his mouth did they come true. The TV blinked off, leaving the quiet of the District to seep in through the house.

“Maybe they’ll give us some more power later today,” Chris offered.

“Stop jinxing us,” John replied, gently nudging his friend.

“Mum!” Scott’s cry broke the silence. He burst through the door, Isaac clinging to his back.

The adults sprung to action.

“What happened?” Melissa asked, clearing away the mess on the table as John helped Scott lay the boy down across the tabletop.

“He ate something while I wasn’t watching,” Scott explained, his eyes wide with panic and panting from running.

Melissa crouched before Isaac, keeping her voice level as she tried to speak calmly, “Isaac, sweetie, what did you eat?”

“Black… berries,” the boy muttered weakly, his voice strained with pain.

“Which black berries?” Melissa prompted. She pressed the back of her slender hand to the boy’s forehead. “He’s got a slight fever.”

“My tummy hurts,” Isaac whimpered.

Scott patted down Isaac’s pockets. He delved into one of the pockets, pulling out a handful of plump black berries. His heart fell into his stomach.

“Isaac,” Scott growled. “Did you eat these ones?”

Isaac groaned, curling up on himself.

“Isaac, these are poisonous!” Scott yelled. “They’re _deadly_!”

“No,” Isaac muttered.

“Did you eat them?!” Scott barked.

“Scott,” Melissa scolded. “You’re not helping.”

“Isaac!”

“No,” the boy cried, hot tears streaking his dirty cheeks. “Black… berries.”

“John, take him somewhere,” Melissa instructed.

John stepped over to Scott’s side, taking the poisonous berries from the boy’s trembling hands and dropping them in the bin. He swung his arm around Scott’s shoulders and led him out of the house.

“Where’s your bag?” John asked.

“I left it in the field,” Scott muttered, casting a worried glance over his shoulder and back at the house. “I dropped it and rushed Isaac home.”

“I know you’re worried,” John uttered, giving the boy a small hug. “But yelling at Isaac isn’t going to help.”

“What if he ate the poisonous ones?”

“I think Isaac knows better than that,” John replied. “Alright, we’ll go get the bag, forage a little more and see if we can find the berry plant that Isaac ate.”

“Okay,” Scott whispered, glancing over his shoulder one last time.

They trudged through the muddy streets, heavy boots sinking into sludge. Finally, the mud-clad toes of their boots stepped into the grassy patch that seemed to leak into the District through the hole in the fence.

Scott and John ducked under the barbed-wire fence that skirted District Twelve and wove their way through the trees and bushes until they came across the small clearing where the boys had been.

Scott’s dark eyes surveyed the area until he spotted the dull canvas bag among the lush green grass. He knelt down beside the bag and rifled through it to make sure the strawberries hadn’t been bruised and the glass jar full of honeycomb hadn’t shattered or leaked.

“All good?” John asked.

Scott nodded.

“Where was Isaac when you found him?” John asked.

Scott pointed across the small opening. “Just before that tree. I dropped the bag and ran to him.”

John walked across the grassy patch, picking up the bundle of flowers that had fallen among the emerald blades.

“Isaac was picking them for mum,” Scott explained, his dark eyes searching the area for any berry bushes. He rubbed at his eyes, blinking back the hot tears that blurred his vision. His voice was weak, croaking as he asked, “He’s not going to die, is he?”

“No,” John replied. “Your mother would never let that happen.”

Scott nodded.

“Have a look around and see if you can find any berries,” John instructed. He turned his eyes away from the boy and surveyed the area until he caught sight of a small, vine-like plant. Small bundles of berries blossomed on the small tendrils, ripening from green to purple to black and glossy.

“Scott, look here.”

He knelt down beside the plant, pushing aside tendrils and stalks as he looked it over.

“You know more about plants then I do,” John admitted. “Do you know what this one is?”

“Blackberries,” Scott announced, relief lightening his voice. “The fruit. They’re not poisonous.”

“It looks like some berries have been picked off the branches, see?” John pulled at the branches, showing Scott the exposed ends of the vines that had been stripped of their fruit.

“Do you think Isaac ate this one?”

“I hope so,” John replied.

“Then why did he have poisonous berries in his pocket?” Scott queried.

“Maybe for protection,” John proposed. “So that he could feed them to or use them against any wild animals that attacked the two of you.”

John plucked the plant from the ground. “Regardless, we’ll take this home and ask Isaac if he ate these ones. Maybe your mum can make something of them too.”

“Maybe that’s not a good idea, considering how much pain Isaac’s in,” Scott muttered.

“You make a good point,” John replied. “We should still take them home to ask Isaac about them. Come on, let’s head home. Have you got the bag?”

Scott nodded, shrugging the strap of the satchel further up onto his shoulder.

“I’ve got the strawberries, the mint, a little bit of honeycomb and a couple of feathers,” Scott confirmed as he led the way through the thick pines and blossoming undergrowth.

They made their way back to the fence and ducked beneath the bent wire. They walked back through the dull streets stained by coal and mud as the next shift of miners headed to work, marching down the street with solemn expressions. They nodded to John on the way towards the mines. He returned the curt nod, greeting them by name.

Scott was amazed at how he could do that, how he could remember everyone’s names and families; the District was crowded, overpopulated, and no-one ever talked to anyone. Even the mayor and the Capitol representatives didn’t know anyone’s names. But Chris and John knew everyone – miner, merchant and child.

“You should be mayor,” Scott told him.

“You say that every week,” John chuckled.

“Because it’s true.”

John swung his arm around the boy. “Maybe one day, but not any time soon.”

Scott pushed open the front door, staying by the doorway as John stepped past him and walked over to Isaac’s side. He crouched low enough to look the boy in the eye.

“How are you feeling, kiddo?” John asked, stroking aside one of the sandy curls that clung to his sweaty forehead.

“My tummy hurts,” he whimpered.

“Isaac, are these the berries you ate?” John queried, holding up the small vine of blackberries.

Isaac nodded.

John sighed and showed Melissa.

“Blackberries,” she sighed.

“I told you,” Isaac muttered. “Blackberries.”

“So what’s wrong with him?” Scott asked.

“Blackberries are high in fibre,” Melissa announced. “For someone who doesn’t have a high fibre diet, they can cause stomach cramps and digestion issues. Did you find any mint?”

Scott nodded, shrugging off his bag and pulling out the small pile of mint leaves. Melissa took them from him and instructed Chris to boil them in some water.

John sat Isaac upright on the table, handing him the small bundle of daisies, lavender, forget-me-nots, wild flowers and dandelions.

“You left them in the field,” John whispered. “Do you want to give them to Melissa?”

Isaac nodded. He plucked out three daisies from the bunch and set them down on the table.

“Melissa,” John called, nodding for her to join them. “Isaac has something for you.”

Isaac hid his blush in John’s shirt as he handed her the bunch of flowers.

Melissa smiled sweetly, thanking the boy as she brought them over to the sink. She washed the stems and filling a mug with water. She set the flowers in mug and set them atop the small window sill. She turned to Scott who was trying to busy himself by putting away the berries, the honeycomb and the remaining mint leaves.

She stepped over to her son’s side and pulled him into a hug. She whispered, “Thank you.”

“It was Isaac’s idea,” Scott lied.

“I’m sure it was,” she said, unconvinced. Melissa smiled at him, pressing a tender kiss to her son’s temple.

Isaac winced in pain, glistening tears falling from his eyes as he wound his arms around his stomach.

John lifted Isaac into his arms, gently patting his back as if he were burping a baby.

Isaac sobbed into the worn cotton of John’s shirt, muttering about how much his stomach hurt. After a minute he sniffed back his tears and reached for the three daisies he had set on the table, his chubby fingers making a grabbing motion.

John carried him over to the table, picking up the flowers and handing them to the boy. He plucked one form the bundle and threaded it through the buttonhole of John’s shirt. He pointed at Scott and John carried him over to the boy.

Scott jolted with shock as Isaac tucked the second daisy into the small pocket of Scott’s shirt.

Scott turned to the boy and whispered, “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“I’d never eat the bad berries,” Isaac muttered.

“I know, I was just scared.”

“It’s okay,” Isaac whispered, leaning forward to hug Scott. Scott pressed a kiss to the crown of the boy’s head. “My tummy does hurt though.”

“Chris is making you some tea to make you feel better,” Scott explained.

Isaac turned his bright eyes to Chris who stirred the mint leaves through the boiling water. He pointed at the man and John obediently walked over to his friend’s side.

“Hey, buddy,” Chris whispered, gently tousling Isaac’s golden curls.

Isaac reached forward and threaded the final daisy through a button hole on Chris’ shirt.

The man smiled, a rare sight.

“Thank you,” Chris whispered, pulling the small cauldron off the boil.

Melissa brought over a cup and a ladle. Chris spooned the tea into the mug, handing it to John.

John told the boy, “It’s hot.”

Isaac nodded and gently blew on the steaming tea,

John lifted the mug to the boy’s lips holding the mug still as he sipped at the drink.

“You can have some tea now and some more again in a few hours and then your tummy should feel better,” Melissa told Isaac, smiling at the sight of her boys and their daisies. She walked back over to the small bouquet she had been given. She pulled a daisy from the bundle and walked back over to the boy, weaving the small flower through his tangled sandy blonde curls.

Isaac giggled, hiding his crimson cheeks in the curve of John’s neck.

John walked over to the couch and set the boy down in his lap. He waited for the boy to settle and his tear-streaked cheeks to dry.

Suddenly the television blinked on again.

The screen faded in and out of colour as it focused on Stiles’ face.

“Stiles,” Isaac murmured cheerfully.

John sighed and called Scott over. He nodded at Isaac and Scott lifted the boy out of the man’s lap.

“Take him to your room and stay there until the broadcast is over,” John instructed.

“But I want to watch,” Isaac objected.

“Not today, sweetie,” Melissa whispered.

Scott carried Isaac to their room, wrestling as the boy kicked and screamed and cried about how he wanted to see Stiles. Scott closed the door behind them, the younger boy’s cries muffled as the adults turned back to the TV.

The side of the screen was lit with the faces of the fallen tributes of the District.

DISTRICT 4: LIAM DUNBAR.

The boy had a youthful face, his eyes bright and skin glowing.

A woman with the same face and hair as the boy stood atop a small podium, backlit by the portrait of her son. Beside her stood a dark-skinned man who didn’t look like he was related to the boy, but he did seem familiar: a victor of the Games many years ago.

DISTRICT 4: MALIA TATE.

Her father – a stern but distraught looking man – stood alone on the platform.

Stiles glanced down at the notecards in his hands.

“He wouldn’t read the Capitol’s propaganda speeches,” Chris whispered.

“After what happened in District Two, would you?” Melissa challenged.

Chris didn’t answer.

“It doesn’t make a difference,” John muttered. “If he reads it, the crowd will start a riot, and if he says what he’s thinking, then they’re still going to make a riot and the peacekeepers will take action without mercy.”

Stiles lowered the cue cards. His lips moved around unspoken words as he tried to find his voice.

The all watched on patiently.

“They were children,” Stiles said weakly. “They were sons and daughters who had families and homes. They were children who died too young. They were kids who would play in the streets and in the fields, with toys or sticks or friends.”

John swallowed hard, trying to blink back tears as he heard his son speak. He tried to push back the images – the memories – of Scott, Stiles, Isaac and Allison playing in the streets or in the meadow, their faces lit with bright smiles and eyes glittering with joy.

Melissa reached for John’s hand and then for Chris’.

The three of them exchanged glances, their teary eyes giving away the fact that they were all thinking of the same thing.

Stiles continued, “I didn’t know Liam or Malia, but I will never forget them. I will see their faces and imagine their laughter as I walk down the street. I will feel the warmth of their smiles as I look across the grassy meadows beyond the fences of District Twelve. And I will hold on to the hope that if we had met in another life, we could have been friends.”

Stiles’ tears fell across his mole-speckled cheeks.

“I wish I could give you something that could end the pain and give you peace, but I can only offer you sincerity and my deepest apologies.” He paused and wiped at his tears before continuing, “I know what it’s like to hear the name of someone you love called out across the District. It’s something that can’t be described… The fear and the pain is indescribable. But I could never understand what it’s like to watch them leave, to watch them fight, to watch them draw their last breath, and to know that the one you loved – your child – is not coming home.”

John lifted his arm around Melissa’s shoulder, letting her hide her face in the curve of his shoulder. Her composure shattered, tears seeping through the thinning fabric of his shirt as his chest muffled her sobs.

“I’m sorry.” Stiles looked between the tear-stained faces of the adults and whispered, “No more blood needs to be shed.”

Stiles stepped back from the microphone, scanning the teary faces of the crowds. He glanced over his shoulder at Derek, who could not hide the fact that he, too, was crying.

Stiles whispered something and Derek nodded, stepping forward to stand by the boy’s side.

Both boys raised their hands to their lips, pressing a tender kiss to the buds of their fingers. They raised their hands high, the proud funeral salute that no-one dared challenge.

“No,” John gasped, clapping his hand over his mouth.

An icy chill of fear spread through his blood as his son stood his ground.

The camera panned across the crowd as the people of District Four followed without hesitation.

Peacekeepers looked between one another, confused as to who they were to subdue and punish.

The Capitol anthem blared across the District.

The image faded back to the faces of the inhuman presenters back in the Capitol.

“A warning to the Districts,” the commentator announced, a lot more serious than usual. “Any attempts of revolution against or defiance of the Capitol, will be met with fatal consequences.”

The broadcast ended.

The power cut out again.

“You don’t think they…?” Melissa asked breathlessly.

“Acted upon it like they did in Two,” Chris finished, his voice was cold and his body hollow as he spoke.

John let out a disheartened sigh. “I think they did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to write the entire victory tour in one chapter, but by the time I got to District Two I realised just how long this part would take. And so, I have broken it up across two chapters which will be posted late next week. After that, I have another one or two chapters before this fic is finished.
> 
> Stiles’ outfits for this chapter are inspired by the outfits that Peeta wears at the Reaping in The Hunger Games: Catching Fire (https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/0b/b1/fa/0bb1fa0de76efc0ca2eb87dc633869fa.jpg) as it is quite similar to the hoodies and jackets that Stiles likes to wear.


	18. Chapter 18

John groaned as he upright in bed, his limbs aching from the strain. He swung his legs over the edge and rested his head in his hands. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair and sighed.

He glanced across the room. He had spent the past few nights alone after Chris moved into the boys’ room to stop Isaac from moving between beds in the middle of the night and waking everyone because he was unsure of whether he wanted to sleep with Chris or Scott. And, although it made their lives easier, it left John feeling lonely when he woke to the silent, empty room.

He tried to remind himself that his son would be home in a couple of days, but the mere thought of holding Stiles in his arms made his heart sink into his stomach and reminded him how lonely he was in that moment.

He drew in a deep breath and rose from the bed. He dressed and made his way out into the kitchen. He filled a small cauldron with water and tossed a few mint leaves in it before setting it over the crackling fire.

Isaac had been feeling better after a couple of cups of mint tea but he still had cramps, so Melissa had told him to drink some more mint tea over the next few days.

John rummaged through the cupboard and collected the flour, salt and sugar. He mixed them together and added water. He rolled the dough and set it in a baking tin. He brought it over to the fire and set it among the embers. He swept away the ash that spilled across the wooden boards before returning to the kitchen. He was slicing up some of the strawberries that Scott had gathered yesterday when the front door rattled open.

Chris stepped into the kitchen, stepping out the back to string up the rabbit he had caught before returning and setting his pack down on the table. His bright eyes surveyed the house.

“They’re not up yet,” John whispered.

Chris nodded and dug through his bag.

“There wasn’t any chocolate for sale,” Chris whispered, pulling out a bundle of cloth. He unrolled the shirt and showed John what he had purchased. “But I got him a pair of woollen socks, a new shirt, and I noticed his dress shirt is getting a little tight on him, so I traded a rabbit and some berries for a new one.”

“Thank you. He’s had the same shirt for four years now.”

He foraged through the rest of his bag before pulling out a thin scarf.

“I also picked this up,” Chris announced, holding out the threadbare grey scarf for John to see. “It’s my old one, but if he’s going to go foraging with Scott during winter, it’s better than nothing.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” John replied, patting his friend’s shoulder.

“I also got us some apples for breakfast,” Chris announced, pulling out three ripe green apples from the bag.

John opened his mouth to thank him when the sound of rustling sheets silenced them.

Christ quickly stacked the clothes back into his satchel.

“Hide them in the closet in my room,” John instructed.

Chris nodded and made his way towards the bedroom, gently tousling Isaac’s sandy curls as he dragged his feet into the lounge room.

The boy rubbed at his sleepy eyes, toddling over to John’s side. He lifted his arms and hugged the man’s waist, hiding his face in John’s shirt.

John wrapped his arm around the boy and returned the hug.

“How’s your tummy?” he asked.

“Still a little sore,” Isaac mumbled.

“Do you want some more tea?”

Isaac nodded and pulled back. He sat down at the end of the table, waiting patiently.

John collected a cup and pulled the cauldron off the boil. He spooned the tea into the mug and brought it over to the boy.

“It’s hot,” he warned and Isaac nodded before mumbling his thanks and sipping at the hot drink cautiously.

Chris returned, smiling at Isaac as he walked by.

The boy returned the smile and chirped, “Morning.”

“Good morning,” Chris replied. He grabbed a knife and began to slice the apples.

“What’s for breakfast?” Scott muttered as he walked into the room, raking his fingers through his hair and sniffing at the air.

“Good morning to you too, Scott,” John called.

“Morning,” Scott replied guiltily before repeating, “What’s for breakfast?”

“Damper and fruit,” John replied.

“Is that the yummy special bread?” Isaac asked, sitting upright in his seat.

“Yeah, it’s the special bread. Chris got some apples too.”

“Apples?” Isaac squealed. His heels thumped against the wooden frame of the chair as he swung his feet back and forth.

“Sit still,” Scott hissed.

“But special bread and apples,” Isaac whined, unable to contain his excitement.

“What’s going on?” Melissa asked, pulling the front panels of her knitted woollen coat tight around her slender body as she entered the room.

“Breakfast,” John replied.

“Special bread,” Isaac announced with joy. “And apples, and strawberries, and I’ve got tea to make my tummy better.”

Melissa smiled as she gasped, playing along with the boy’s joy.

“Have you said thank you?” she asked.

Isaac nodded.

“Scott, can you pull the damper out and bring it over here?” John tossed him the hand towel and set the wooden board in the centre of the table. “It should be ready.”

Scott pulled the baking tray out of the ambers and brought it over, inhaling the sweet scent of freshly cooked damper. He set it on top of the wooden board before collecting a stack of plates. He grabbed a small butter knife and ran it along the sides of the tray before tipping its contents onto a clean plate. He cut thick slices of the sweet doughy bread before plating them and passing them to Chris and John who set slices of apple and strawberries beside the damper. Once done, they slid the plate over to Isaac who stared at it with wide eyes.

The boy licked his lips, shifting about in his seat.

The fresh scent was testing his patience but he waited.

Melissa fetched a pitcher of water and sat down next to Isaac, watching as Scott, John and Chris tried to plate up the breakfast as quickly as they could to put Isaac out of his misery.

They all sat down and John gave Isaac permission to start eating.

The boy tore into the sweet dough. He bit into the crunchy slices of apple and devoured the juicy strawberries. When he could finally tear his eyes away from the plate of food, he glanced around the table and smirked at anyone who met his gaze.

When he was finished he gently pushed his plate forward before picking up his mug of tea. He sipped at it and waited for everyone else to finish.

Scott looked over to the boy and asked, “Do you want to go into the field today?”

Isaac shook his head.

“Do you want to go to the market?” Scott proposed.

Isaac shook his head again.

“Where do you want to go then?”

“Can we stay here?” Isaac asked. “My tummy still hurts.”

“The broadcast is going to be boring,” John lied. “And Chris and I have to work in the mines this evening.”

“I can stay in my room,” Isaac bargained. “I’ll play with my toys.”

“Okay,” Melissa agreed. “But you have to stay in your room.”

Isaac smiled sweetly. “I will, I promise.”

Scott collected up the plates and stored away whatever leftovers there were. John rose from the table and helped Scott quickly clean the dishes. Melissa dried them and stored them away in the rickety cupboards.

Isaac held onto his mug, patiently waiting to ask someone for more tea.

Chris smiled as he took the mug from the boy and spooned some more mint tea into it.

“Thank you,” Isaac beamed, sipping at the warm liquid.

“Come on,” Scott whispered, gently patting the younger boy’s shoulder.

“Can I take my tea with me?” he asked Melissa.

She smiled sweetly and nodded. “But only if you don’t spill it.”

“I won’t,” Isaac promised, rising to his feet before carefully taking a hold of the mug. He glared at the tea, taking one step at a time and stopping whenever the liquid threatened to spill.

Scott rolled his eyes as he followed Isaac.

John watched as Isaac set the mug down on the floor by his bed. The boy collected his toys from the bottom of their closet: an odd-shaped stone he had found by the river beyond the District fence, a whittled wooden dog that Scott and Stiles had saved up all their money to buy him for his birthday last year, and a tattered old teddy bear with missing eyes and patches of different colours that Stiles had given him to calm him down when he lost his family. They weren’t much, but to Isaac they were everything.

The boy sat down on the dust-covered floorboards and began to play with his toys.

Scott sat down across from him, rocking the whittled dog from side to side and talking in an exaggerated voice that made Isaac giggle.

John smiled and carefully shut the door.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice called from the other room, the pitch and volume shifting as television took a moment to tune into the signal. “Please welcome to the stage, the victor of the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Stiles Stilinski.”

John stepped back into the lounge room and joined Chris and Melissa on the couch.

The cameras focused on the boy’s face and John couldn’t help but notice how tired the boy looked, the shadows beneath the boy’s eyes and drained expression made it look like he wasn’t aware of himself. Stiles’ emotions spiked as he looked up at the haunting faces of the fallen tributes of the District.

John glanced at the portraits beside the broadcast.

DISTRICT 5: JORDAN PARRISH.

The boy looked so young, his bright jade eyes and rounded cheeks adding to his youthful appearance. His chestnut brown hair was cropped short and his mouth naturally fell into a smile.

John looked down at the next photo.

DISTRICT 5: KIRA YUKIMURA.

Melissa let out a heartbroken sigh. “They were so young.”

“They all were,” Chris added.

John could see the pain in his friend’s eyes. He could see how Chris’ mind drifted for a second as he lost himself in the memories of the young girl he had raised.

He reached across the back of the couch and gently patted Chris’ shoulder.

Chris straightened and looked at John. He smiled weakly before turning his eyes back to the screen.

John watched him for a second before doing the same.

Stiles seemed to regain a fraction of composure, just enough for him to talk. He swallowed hard and began, “I did not have the honour of meeting Jordan - he died before I got the chance - but he seemed like a nice boy and I would have liked to have known him.”

The camera panned across District Five.

There was no-one on Jordan’s podium, no family to mourn him, but the District bowed their heads in acknowledgment and respect.

“He spent his last breath selflessly defending another tribute,” Stiles continued. “He was a brave and honourable man whose death comes at a loss to us all.”

The boy’s eyes drifted to Kira’s portrait.

“I knew Kira though, and I will never forget her.” His voice was strained. “I will always see her face... I’ll see her in my dreams, but I’ll lose her in my nightmares. I’ll pray that I can change what happened and save her, but I’ll spend hours crying over the reality I face, over the girl I held in my arms. I’ll see her in the flowers that grow across the fields of District Twelve and those that stretch beyond the boarders that restrain us, but I’ll lose her in the winter. But I’ll _always_ find her in the stars where she shines the brightest.”

Tears caressed Stiles’ cheeks.

His words failed him.

He glanced over his shoulder at Derek and shook his head. His lips quivered around unspoken words as Derek stepped forward and took a hold of Stiles’ trembling hand.

“Oh no,” Melissa gasped. “Please, no.”

“There’s no stopping them,” Chris whispered.

The citizens of District Five raised their hands in the funeral salute.

Melissa turned and buried her face in John’s shoulder. Chris turned and wrapped his arms around her.

The broadcast cut to the Capitols insignia as the anthem blared through the speakers and the faces of the commentators returned to the screen.

“The people of Beacon Hills have been warned. Any attempts of revolution against or defiance of the Capitol, will be met with fatal consequences.”

The broadcast returned to the District. A row of individuals were dragged up to the stage, their family screaming and violently thrashing about in the arms of the peacekeepers.

The guards lined up behind their kneeling victims and drew their firearms. They pressed the barrels to the backs of the heads of the innocent and pulled the trigger.

John pulled Melissa close, burying his face in her dark curls as she flinched at the sound of gunshots.

From that point on, everything seemed to blur together.

District after District, the faces in the crowd watched Stiles with pride and admiration as he spoke honestly. And District after District, the broadcast was abruptly ended as the crowds raised their fingers in a respectful salute for the dead, only to be attacked, beaten, abused or executed as Stiles and Derek were ushered offstage.

Melissa was sobbing violently in Chris’ arms when John heard the soft creak of a door. He turned around.

Scott stood just inside the doorway. His eyes were wide with terror as he stared at the bloody massacre that was broadcasted from District Seven.

“Go back to your room,” John instructed.

The boy was stunned. He didn’t hear the man.

“Scott!” the man howled. “Go to your room!”

Scott stumbled slightly as he sprinted back into his bedroom and slammed the door shut behind him.

The television blinked off.

Chris stayed by Melissa’s side while John rose and collected a chipped clay mug from the cupboard. He filled it with water and brought it back to the woman.

She took it gratefully and sipped at it.

Chris carefully stroked the tears off of her cheeks.

“We have to go to work,” Chris whispered. “Are you going to be okay here with the boys?”

Melissa sniffed back her tears and nodded.

“I’ll talk to Scott,” John announced, making his way around the couch.

“John,” Melissa called.

“I know,” John whispered soothingly. He gently knocked at the door before entering the boys’ room. Isaac was sitting in the middle of the room and playing with his toys. Scott was curled up on his bed.

John carefully stepped over the small mess that Isaac had made and sat down next to Scott. He pulled the boy into his arms and held him close.

“Is that really happening?” the boy stammered.

“Yes,” John whispered.

“Why?”

“Because Stiles has given them hope,” John replied. “And because they choose to honour the dead instead of praising the Capitol and Stiles’ victory, they consider it to be an act of rebellion.”

Scott’s lips quivered around unspoken words.

“It’s going to be okay,” John assured him.

“I just wanted a glass of water,” Scott muttered.

“I’ll get you a glass,” John whispered. “The broadcast is over. You and Isaac can come out now if you want.”

Scott was silent.

John gently patted his shoulder. “I think your mum needs you right now.”

Scott nodded.

John rose from the bed and helped the boy walk into the lounge room. He collected a glass and filled it with water. As he turned to carry it to the boy, he watched as Scott cautiously stepped towards his mum.

Melissa met his gaze, sniffing back her own tears. She held her arms open and the boy collapsed into her hold. His tears soaked through her dress as he grabbed at handfuls of her jacket. Melissa wrapped her arms tight around the boy. Her soft tears splashed against the boy’s head as she pressed kisses to the crown of his head.

She muttered something over and over. No-one understood her mumblings, but they all knew what she was saying: “It could have been you.”

 

Chris and John rose early to get everything ready for the special day. They set the presents on the table, divided them into separate parcels to make it look like Isaac had more presents from each of them. They wrapped them in scraps of paper before tying them shut with straw strings.

Melissa joined them, quickly stirring together flour, the small ration of sugar, and the small chunk of vanilla she had spent all of her savings on.

There was a soft tap at the door as neighbours brought eggs and milk – rarities in District Twelve. Melissa thanked them all, and every one of them gave the same reply, “Anything to see that sweet little boy smile.”

Melissa finished off the cake batter and poured it into a tin, setting it atop the fire.

There was a quiet rustle and soft creak as the bedroom door slid open.

John, Chris and Melissa exchanged worried glances.

They weren’t ready yet.

“Anything I can help with?” Scott whispered.

The adults sighed heavily.

“The cake will be ready in about twenty minutes,” Melissa announced. “And the presents are nearly wrapped. Can you make sure Isaac stays in bed just a little longer?”

Scott nodded and walked back into his room.

Melissa waited for the cake to cook and cool before tipping it out of the tin and decorating it with strawberries, apple slices and a few blackberries – which she would take off Isaac’s slice.

“It looks beautiful,” John whispered.

“Thank you.” Melissa smiled. She cast a glance at Chris. “Ready?”

Chris nodded, stacking up the presents.

“Okay, I’ll go and get the boys,” Melissa whispered. She made her way over to the boys’ room and knocked at the door. The door groaned on its hinges as Melissa crept into the room.

John listened to her soft whispers as she woke Isaac.

Seconds later the young boy toddled out of the bedroom, rubbing at his sleepy eyes. He yawned and blinked himself awake.

His bright sapphire eyes fell upon the cake. His teal irises glittered as a bright smile lit up his face. He bounced from foot to foot, too excited to squeal.

“Is that for me?” he asked.

“Yeah, it is,” John said. “Happy birthday, kiddo.”

Isaac bounced up and down in the spot, squealing with joy.

“Come on,” Melissa cooed, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Sit down at the table and we’ll have some cake and you can open your presents.”

“Presents?” Isaac shrieked. He sprinted to his usual seat at the table and bounced onto the chair, kneeling on the wood to peer over the cake.

“Sit properly,” Scott scolded.

Isaac shuffled about and sat on the chair, his shiny eyes were still focused on the cake.

Melissa picked up a small knife and cut the cake. She served up the slices, making sure not to give Isaac any blackberries.

The boy thanked her as she set the plate down before him. He picked it apart with his fingers and ate the soft crumbs. He smiled at Melissa as he stuffed his mouth full of the sweet strawberries and crunchy apple slices.

Once his had finished devouring the slice of cake, John slid a paper-wrapped present across the table to the boy.

Isaac waited patiently.

“Go on,” Scott encouraged.

“Can I open it?” Isaac whispered.

“It’s your birthday,” Scott replied. “Go on, open it.”

Isaac fumbled with the rough yarn as he pulled the string off. He tried to delicately unwrap the present but despite his best efforts the thin sheet of paper tore.

He looked at the adults with a panicked expression.

“It’s okay,” John whispered. “It’s just paper.”

Isaac slowly pulled out the contents of the parcel. His face lit up with joy as he held up the pale blue shirt. A pair thick grey woollen socks toppled out of the bundled fabric. Isaac gasped as he quickly snatched them up. His fingers trembled slightly as he ran them across the stitched wool. His eyes welled with tears as hugged the shirt and socks close to his chest, muttering “Thank you” over and over again.

“They’re from Scott,” John told him.

“Thank you, Scott!” the boy squealed, leaning over to the older boy’s side and hugging him tightly.

“You’re welcome, buddy,” Scott muttered.

As the younger boy sat back, Scott looked at John with a confused expression.

John returned his gaze, levelled and authorial like the father he was.

“This one is from Chris,” John said as he slid the second parcel across the table.

The boy was a little less patient with this parcel. He tore open the paper and pulled the contents out from between the stands of yarn.

Isaac froze for a moment, running the soft scarf through his hands. He babbled a thank you as he buried his face in the worn cotton.

Chris smirked as he crossed to the boy’s side and gave him a small hug.

“Happy birthday, Isaac,” Chris whispered.

“I’ll take good care of it,” he promised, setting it down atop the shirt.

“This is from Melissa and me,” John said as he slid across the final package.

“This is the last one, sweetie,” Melissa said, a hint of remorse in her tone.

They all wished they could give Isaac more, but the boy seemed more than content with what he had been given.

“Three presents?!” Isaac squealed with joy. He tore it apart like the last one. He pulled the dress shirt out from within the mess of shredded paper and held it up in the air.

“Thank you!” he squealed.

“Try it on,” Scott instructed. He took a hold of the shirt and helped the boy thread his arms through the sleeves.

“It fits!” the boy cheered.

Chris let out a quiet sigh of relief.

Isaac looked at John and Melissa with bright, pleading eyes and asked, “Can I wear it today?”

Melissa smiled. “Okay, but you have to have a bath first.”

“Okay,” Isaac agreed.

“I’ll get the water ready,” Scott announced, rising from his seat. He filled the large pot with water and set it over the dwindling fire. He tossed another log onto the fire and poked at it with the metal rod, provoking the flames to consume the wood.

John walked into the boys’ room and set out their good clothes: dress pants, shoes, socks and a shirt for Scott. Isaac brought in his new shirt and socks and set them atop the pile. He gently patted the creases out of them.

John smiled and gently tousled Isaac’s golden curls.

The boy beamed at him before he toddled off towards the small alcove where Scott filled the old bath tub. He quickly added some cool water to even out the temperature.

Isaac thrashed about as he pulled his clothes off.

Scott smirked and helped the boy untangle his frail limbs. He held Isaac steady as the boy cautiously stepped into the bath and rubbed at his skin with the bar of soap.

Melissa brought her home-made shampoo over to Scott. He took it gratefully and poured some into his hand, and began to massage it into Isaac’s curls.

Isaac melted into the older boy’s hands, content with the warmth of the water and the tenderness of Scott’s touch.

Scott carefully rinsed the lather of bubbles out of Isaac’s curls and helped him back out of the tub.

John pounced on Isaac with a towel before he had the chance to sprint around the house naked. He walked the boy across the withered floorboards and into the boys’ room. He helped Isaac pat himself dry before dressing him.

Scott quickly washed, refilled the bathtub for his mother and joined them. He dressed quickly before retrieving the brush.

He passed it to John, who struggled to neaten the younger boy’s untameable curls.

Once the boy was as neat as he could possibly be, the boys went out into the kitchen to wait.

Melissa joined them, dressed in one of her nicest dresses. Scott helped her tighten the belt of her cream dress, fastening the sash into a bow in the curve of her back.

“How do I look?” Isaac asked, arms spread wide and spinning in a circle to show off his new shirt.

“Very handsome,” Melissa complimented as she took a second to adjust the boy’s collar and finish doing up his buttons.

Scott helped clear away the dishes while Isaac sat and waited patiently at the table as to insure he wouldn’t make a mess or get his new shirt dirty.

John and Chris took their turns in the bath.

No-one paid attention to the broadcast of Districts Nine and Ten as they got themselves ready.

Once content with their appearances, they left the house and made their way through the streets of District Twelve and into the common area.

Isaac held onto Scott’s sleeve, scared that they would be separated like they were for the Reaping Ceremony.

The large screens were still set up before the Justice Building, this time accompanied by two large podiums at the far end of the space.

Two peacekeepers approached them.

Isaac let out a quiet whimper and shrunk into Scott’s shadow, hiding behind the tall boy the best he could. The older boy wrapped his arm around Isaac’s shoulders and held him close.

Chris and John nodded curtly to the armoured guards before turning to the boys.

“Chris and I have to go and stand on the podiums,” John explained. “You two behave, okay?”

John looked from one boy to the other.

Isaac nodded and Scott promised, “We will.”

“Stay with your mum,” Chris instructed.

John gave the boys a quick hug before turning to Melissa. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and held her close.

“It’ll be okay,” he whispered.

Melissa gave him a tight squeeze before finally letting him go. She turned towards Chris, giving him a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek.

They finished their farewells and turned to the peacekeepers.

The men were escorted through the gathering crowd and to the platforms that were set up at the far end of the common place.

John stared up the ladder before glancing over his shoulder at his friend.

“Best seats in the house,” John joked.

Chris chuckled as he grabbed a hold of one of the rungs and climbed up onto the rickety platform.

John followed suit, pausing when he reached to top to look across the open space. He glanced over at Chris and gently tapped his foot against the podium, flinching as it groaned and wavered in the slight breeze. “How long do you think these things will hold up?”

Chris laughed at his friend.

“Hopefully long enough,” he replied.

From on top of the platform, they watched the broadcast of District Eleven.

The screens were lit with the bold portraits of the fallen tributes.

DISTRICT 11: VERNON BOYD.

DISTRICT 11: BRAEDEN.

Before the portrait of the male tribute stood an elderly woman with wiry grey hair and with three young girls huddled around her, Boyd’s mother and sisters. The two older girls looked no older than ten years old, and the youngest sat in her mother’s arms, weakly clinging to the dull fabric of the woman’s dress and resting her head against her mother’s shoulder.

On the podium in front of Braeden’s photograph was a young boy, no older than six years old. His sister was gone and his parents were absent, leaving John to assume he was an orphan.

“Your tributes were heroes,” Stiles said confidently. “I know there is nothing I can say to make your loss any less painful, but I just want you to know that they were brave, they were selfless, and they were heroes. From the very beginning of the Games, Braeden and Vernon risked their lives to save Kira’s life and my own. Although they lost their lives doing so, I promise you their sacrifice was not in vain… Please, remember them the way I do. They are the heroes of the seventy-fourth Hunger Games.”

The anthem began to play and Stiles stepped back from the microphone.

John felt his heart skip a beat. A wave of anxiety flooded his veins.

He glanced over at Chris.

The man returned his gaze, the twinkle in his eyes revealing that they were thinking the same thing: if the crowd reacted the same as the previous Districts, there was no hiding it from Isaac.

The entirety of District Twelve froze.

The cameras turned to an elderly man hobbled forward, standing in the small aisle that divided the crowd. He levelled his gaze with Stiles and raised his head high.

“No,” John pleaded breathlessly.

The elderly man lifted his hand to his mouth, pressing a tender kiss to his trembling fingers as he raised them high into the air.

The peacekeepers of District Eleven raced forward, pushing aside those who tried to defend him, grabbing the elderly man by the arms and hurling him to the ground.

The camera turned back to Stiles. The boy leapt of the stage and sprinted down the aisle and shoved aside the peacekeepers. He stood before the man, arms spread wide and shielding him. He heaved in rugged breaths, eyes burning with rage as a peacekeeper drew his weapon.

From among the crowd below him, John could hear Isaac fight against Melissa’s arms as she tried to shield his face.

John felt his heart pound against his ribs as he watched the captain of the guard aimed the barrel of his gun at Stiles.

“Move,” the man growled.

Stiles stood his ground, silent.

“I said move!”

The captain backhanded the boy, knocking Stiles to the ground.

John flinched. His instincts told him to run to the boy, but he quickly stopped as he reminded himself that he was atop an unstable platform in a different District.

He watched on, helpless.

Derek leapt to the boy’s defence but two peacekeepers hurled him back.

Stiles slammed his hand against the dirt, steadying himself as he rose to his feet and stood his ground.

The guard pressed the barrel to the boy’s forehead.

“You think you can scare me?” Stiles asked him.

“I’m giving you one last chance,” the man said warningly. “Step aside, boy.”

“How dare you disgrace that symbol of my District. How dare you strip it of its meaning and make it seem like a vulgar act of rebellion. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means goodbye to someone you love. And I will not let you disgrace it.”

“Put away your gun, Captain,” Peter called from the stage. “There’s been enough bloodshed.”

The peacekeeper did not budge.

“Or don’t,” Peter continued with a slight shrug.

John’s heart leapt into his throat.

How could Peter suggest such a thing?

“But killing him will only make him a martyr and you a monster,” Peter warned. The cameras turned to him. They focused on the man as he leapt off the stage, landing with a little bounce before casually strutting towards the armed man. “You want to see what a real rebellion looks like? Pull the trigger.”

His voice was low, menacing, as he added, “I dare you.”

Derek glared at the man – obviously enraged that the victor would suggest such a thing. But Peter’s threats worked; the captain of the guard lowered his gun.

Stiles turned away from the peacekeeper and to the elderly man behind him. He whispered something and helped the man onto his unsteady feet.

The man nodded and met Stiles’ gaze. He gently cupped the boy’s cheek and whispered something.

Peter called Stiles’ name and the boy turned to leave. He gave the elderly man a polite nod before joining Derek and Peter. They made their way back up onto the stage and through the doors of the Justice Building. The heavy doors swung shut behind them and the cameras turned back to the elderly man among the crowd.

The captain of the guard swung around again, raised his arm and fired his weapon.

The streets of District Twelve were filled with the echo of the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

The crowd erupted with noise: gasps of shock, shouts of protest, and the distinctive cry of a boy.

John leapt from the platform. He slid down the ladder and racing to Melissa’s side.

Isaac had collapsed in her arms, dragging their weight down to the ground. Scott was barely holding himself together. John gently cupped the older boy’s cheek, pulling him into a tight hug as numb tears caressed Scott’s cheeks.

The boy came back to his senses, standing upright and brushing the tears off of his cheeks.

John gently patted Scott’s shoulder before turning his attention to Melissa. He bent over and lifted Isaac into his arms, quietly muttering, “You don’t want to get your new shirt dirty, do you?”

“Stiles,” the boy whimpered.

“Stiles is okay. He’ll be here soon,” John promised.

“Stiles,” the boy repeated, rubbing at his eyes.

“We’ve got to dust you off,” John said as he patted clouds of dirt from the boy’s clothes. “You want to look your best when Stiles comes home, don’t you?”

Isaac nodded, sniffing back his tears. He rested his head in the curve of John’s neck. The man gently swayed him, whispering assuring words and sweet nothings into the boy’s ear until he calmed down.

He looked at Melissa, who was back on her feet and holding her son.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

She nodded and breathed deeply as she tried to steady her hammering heartbeat. She blinked back her own tears, pressing kisses to the crown of Scott’s head.

“Sir,” a young peacekeeper interrupted, his voice low and sympathetic. “You need to return to the podium.”

John nodded.

“I’ll be there in a second," he assured the young guard.

The peacekeeper nodded and took a step back.

John adjusted his hold on Isaac and helped Scott lift Isaac into his arms. He gently tousled the young boy’s hair.

“It’ll be okay,” he promised them. “It’ll all be over soon.”

John gave Melissa a soft peck on the cheek and a quick hug before walking back to the podium. He climbed up the ladder and glanced across at Chris.

“Are they okay?” Chris asked.

John nodded.

“Shaken up, but okay,” he replied.

“I can’t wait for all of this to be over,” Chris called.

John smiled weakly.

The screens behind them lit up.

“Chris,” John called to his friend.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t look.”

Chris breathed deeply and nodded.

They were silenced as the Capitol anthem played and the mayor of District Twelve stepped up onto the stage.

He made his usual speech about the Hunger Games being ‘the sacrifice we all have to make to keep peace across Beacon Hills’. When he concluded his spiel, he stepped aside and loudly announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome home the victor of the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games, Stiles Stilinski.”

The doors to the Justice Building opened. Stiles, Derek, Peter and Lydia walked out onto the stage.

Stiles paused for a moment, looking across the familiar faces of the crowd. He swallowed hard and let go of Derek’s hand. He stepped up to the microphone.

John felt his stomach churn; that was his son down there, scared and alone, and he couldn’t help.

The boy lifted his gaze to the podium, looking at his dad.

John offered him a reassuring smile but his lips quivered and fell. It pained him to see his son standing before the microphone, especially when he took into consideration what the boy had suffered through over the week in the Games and on the victory tour.

The boy was a shell of himself. He was as thin as he was when he left, but he was paler and had dark, sleepless circles under his eyes. His hands were shaking and his lips quivered as if he were struggling to speak or breathe.

John didn’t want to think about the thoughts that were running through his son’s head: the haunting memories, the lies his anxiety tells him, and the whispers of unfounded guilt.

John looked upon his son with all the pride and love in the world.

Slowly, Stiles drew in a shaky breath and turned to look at the other portrait.

DISTRICT 12: ALLISON ARGENT.

John followed his son’s gaze and glanced at the screen behind Chris.

The portrait was stunning, as beautiful as she was in life. Her jaw was firm and framed by the cascading waves of dark curls. Her skin was radiant, glistening like her dark eyes. She held her composure, much like her father: her chin was tipped upwards with pride.

She was gorgeous.

John turned his attention back to Stiles.

The boy rolled up his sleeve and untied the necklace that was wound around his bony wrist. He balled his fist around the pendant and stepped away from the microphone. He slid off of the stage and walked through the aisle that split the crowd with as much confidence as he could muster.

His eyes were focused on Chris, his gaze not wavering for a second.

Chris glanced at John with a quizzical expression before slowly climbing down from the podium.

John watched as Chris walked forward to meet the boy, his composure fractured and expression filled with worry.

Chris whispered something and the boy held out his hand.  He reached forward to take the offered object.

The necklace fell into the palm of his hand.

A small microphone picked up their conversation.

“Allison made me promise that if I survived, I’d bring it home to you,” Stiles explained.

Chris smiled softly. He reached forward, looping it around the boy’s throat and securing the knot.

“It’s the crest of my family and you have done right by it,” Chris told him. “ _Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes_.”

“We protect those who cannot protect themselves,” Stiles translated.

“You have done exactly that,” Christ pointed out. He rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “And you are family to me.”

Stiles struggled to hold back his tears as he fell into the man’s warm embrace. His small hands clawed at fistfuls of the man’s shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t… I’m so sorry.”

John quickly slid down from the podium, keeping his distance but watching his son’s every movement.

Chris gently pulled Stiles back and levelled his eyes with the boy. He spoke softly, his usually gruff voice smooth and loving as he whispered, “I don’t blame you for anything, okay? Allison died saving you and she would do it a thousand times over without hesitation. What you did for her in return was beautiful; you honoured her and you gave her peace, that’s more than I could have ever asked for. As for Kate, I’d rather remember my sister as child I left behind in Two all those years ago than as the monster that attacked you. And my father made his choice, he stood proud and tried to say the exact same things I am telling you right now. None of this is your fault, Stiles.”

Stiles nodded weakly.

Chris glanced over the boy’s shoulder at John. “Right now, I think there’s someone else you need to talk to.”

Stiles turned around, meeting his father’s gaze.

Chris gently patted the boy’s shoulder and stepped back.

Stiles sprinted across the field and leapt into his father’s arms.

John pulled him into a warm embrace, running his broad hands running over the boy’s slender body as if he wasn’t quite sure he was real. His warm tears seeped through the boy’s shirt as he tightened his hold on his son. Slowly, he leant back and cupped the boy’s cheeks, looking at him lovingly.

“I’m so proud of you,” John whispered. “Not because you walked out of that arena alive, but because of everything you did while you were in there. You stayed true to who you are, and I am proud to call you my boy.”

Tears caressed the boy’s mole-speckled cheeks.

“I love you, Stiles,” John whispered.

“I love you, dad,” Stiles sobbed, falling back into his father’s hold.

“Stiles,” Isaac cried from across the crowd.

Stiles wheeled around, his eyes frantically searching the crowd for the young boy. He sighed slightly when he found the youthful face among the masses. Scott held onto Isaac’s shoulder to hold him back from the peacekeepers who blocked his path.

Isaac’s eyes glistened with tears as he tried to fight off Scott’s hand, slapping it away or shrugging it off.

A smile lit up Stiles’ face.

The peacekeepers seemed to get the hint. They stepped aside and let the young boy sprint into Stiles’ arms. Isaac nearly tackled Stiles to the ground, but the older boy quickly regained his balance and steadied them. He coiled his arms around Isaac and pressed a tender kiss to the crown of the boy’s head, feeling Isaac’s shoulders tremble as he sobbed into Stiles’ shirt.

Stiles gently shushed him, resting his cheek atop the boy’s sandy curls.

“It’s okay,” Stiles promised.

“I missed you,” Isaac cried, tightening his hold around Stiles’ waist as he nuzzled his face into Stiles’ chest. Stiles cradled the back of his head, holding him as close as he possibly could.

“I missed you too, buddy.”

There was a moment of peaceful quiet before Stiles seemed to remember that the cameras were pointed in his direction.

Stiles glanced from the cameras to the stage, where Peter held Derek back from sprinting after the boy.

Derek and Stiles were silent as they exchanged an unspoken conversation through glances.

John knew what was to come next.

If he had to fight, he would; he would protect his family.

Stiles turned to face the cameras again, staring straight down the cold black lens as he declared with finality, “There are no victors in the Games, only survivors.”

Stiles glanced over his shoulder up at Allison’s portrait.

“They were children who didn’t deserve to die,” he continued, turning his gaze once again to the cameras. “The fallen tributes deserve to be honoured in death, not shamed.”

Stiles raised his hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the tips of his fingers. He raised his hand high into the air and saluted towards the cameras and the people of the Districts it reached.

“To the fallen,” he announced.

Atop the stage, Peter and Derek mirrored the gesture and called out, “To the fallen.”

John followed suit, then Chris, Scott, and Melissa. Isaac curled into Stiles’ warmth but peered out enough to return the gesture.

One by one, the people of District Twelve raised their hands in the respectful gesture.

They all held their breaths.

Stiles tightened his grip on Isaac, using his free arm to shield the boy.

John rested his spare hand on his son’s shoulder, assuring the boy he was there and ready for action.

The District readied themselves to fight off any peacekeepers that dared to attack the boy or his family.

But instead, the peacekeepers of District Twelve joined in with the funeral salute.

It was a thank you.

It was a sign of admiration.

It was a goodbye to the ones they loved.

It was one last gesture for those they had lost.

One last show of compassion to honour the fallen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For gilmoreG and anyone who is interested:  
> The Victor’s Village in The Hunger Games looked a lot like old Victorian buildings (http://vignette2.wikia.nocookie.net/thehungergames/images/1/15/Victors_village.jpg/revision/latest/scale-to-width-down/358?cb=20131202055722), but it always struck me as strange that they had so many houses for the victors and only one previous victor, especially considering no one ever expected District Twelve to win. My idea may have also been swayed by the fact that I love the look and layout of the Hale house (burnt or not). And so, the victor’s house in the Village of this piece is as elegant as the Hale house in its youth (http://vignette3.wikia.nocookie.net/teenwolf/images/2/2e/-Extreme_hale_house_makeover.png/revision/latest?cb=20120725032806) but dulled by the poverty of District Twelve and so looks like the burnt remains of the house (https://www.teenwolfwiki.com/files/~1539/17188-original.png), just not in ruins.  
> Despite the fact that the victors are rich and paid for by the Capitol, in The Hunger Games: Catching Fire, the inside view of the kitchen showed that it was still in a state of poverty – with holes in the curtains and blankets pinned to the windows in their place (http://www.mtv.com/crop-images/2014/11/21/cfpeetabread.gif). I did like this aspect as it was a familiar setting for Stiles – having come from poverty – and being thrust into a world of perfection like he was in the Capitol, it would have made him uncomfortable in the place he was to call home.  
> Unlike their old house, the kitchen, lounge room, dining room and the alcove they had designated the bathroom are all separate rooms.  
> I like the simplicity of the colour scheme shown in Catching Fire – the pastels and earthy tones of brown that contrasted the bold colours of the Capitol (http://www.jabberjays.net/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/Katniss-VV.jpg). The living room would have this colour scheme: two beige couches that are large enough for the family to huddle together on and a small armchair in the naughty corner for Peter, blue and grey cushions atop the couches, a small television, and a fireplace framed by cream bricks.  
> There’s a small office-like alcove with a library-worth of books on mahogany bookshelves, for Derek, (http://classyclosets.com/images/media-centers/40%20Mahogany%20Impression%20Bookshelves%20with%20Full%20Backs.jpg) with an old – but not uncomfortable or ratty – grey couch that he sits on with Stiles or Isaac to read stories to them.  
> The kitchen is high class for their society, but still rather old-fashioned (http://www.caddomineral.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/our-messy-cabin-kitchen-photo-by-wes-erbsen-log-cabin-cooking-cabin-kitchen-backsplash-cabin-kitchen-remodel.jpg). It’s stocked full of food and unlimited rations for Melissa to make medicines and perfumes, and for Isaac to eat.  
> The dining room would be a little more extravagant with carved chairs, a cabinet for the plates and fine china, and a large table to fit their family (https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/9c/2008-04-12_Freilichtmuseum_Detmold_(34).jpg or http://i519.photobucket.com/albums/u353/shopfactorydirect/Crown%20Mark/2145T-2146.jpg)  
> Most of the bedrooms – in my head at least – would look like cabins (https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/13/f8/3e/13f83e22fb04df14949412c87f52b42e.jpg) with wooden walls, simple furniture and natural tones. John, Chris and Peter would have their own rooms, simple like Stiles and Derek’s but individualised by photos of loved ones, or bottles of alcohol for Peter (and yes, he lives with them; Melissa wouldn’t let him live in a big house by himself). The bedroom that Scott and Isaac share would be similar but with double beds (http://telp.dallasacu.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/twin-bed-frames-ideas.jpg) only with lots of teddies on Isaac’s. But I also wanted something that reflected Stiles’ room, and so Isaac’s room (when he sleeps in it) would look like Stiles’ bedroom in Season 3 on. It’d have blue walls that were covered in photographs and drawings, a dresser full of clothes, and a cluttered desk of whittled figures, toys and everything he wants to play with (apologies, I couldn’t find better photos: http://www.keysmashblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/5-stiles-dream-sheriff.jpg, http://38.media.tumblr.com/98a1e93a8210e4d80eac14408ecd8763/tumblr_inline_niqvx7URiN1rqzowg.png and http://67.media.tumblr.com/3fd79bd046af567f9735e0a15cdecdbf/tumblr_nc4ah4Nqb01rohg16o2_500.gif). Even though he doesn’t sleep there, he uses the bedroom as a play room or a place to store all his toys and to hide away when he needs to. Melissa’s room would be a little more classy but still simple (http://www.beachsidewhiterock.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/french-country-bedroom-ideas-for-women-with-classic-chandelier.jpg).
> 
> Sorry, that was a long description and a lot of links and photos to look at, hopefully you like it. :)


	19. Chapter 19

The broadcast ended. The ring of the Capitol’s anthem died off throughout the streets of District Twelve with a haunting echo.

John watched as Scott sprinted across the open space and pulled his friend into his arms.

Stiles fell weak in his friend’s arms as he slowly returned the hug.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Scott leant back, looking at his best friend with confusion.

“I couldn’t save her,” Stiles muttered, his dark eyes glittering as tears welled in their depths.

Scott’s features softened. His dark eyes sparkled with pain and remorse and his mouth twitching into a genuine, kind smile.

“You came home,” Scott whispered, resting his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “That’s enough.”

Isaac turned and nuzzled his face back into Stiles’ shirt.

Stiles lifted the boy into his arms. His sweet smile faltered as he remembered something.

“I’m sorry, Isaac,” Stiles whispered. “I don’t have a birthday present for you.”

“Yeah, you do,” the boy replied.

“I don’t,” Stiles said apologetically, his voice slurred with guilt. “I… I really don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” Isaac repeated. “You’re my present.”

Isaac nestled his face into the curve of the Stiles’ neck.

Stiles let out a soft sigh of relief. He cupped the back of the boy’s head, lacing his fingers through his soft, golden curls. He held him close, pressing a soft kiss to the boy’s temple.

“Best birthday ever,” Isaac muttered.

Stiles chuckled, gently swaying the boy in his arms.

The crowd that gathered in the space began to dissipate.

Derek climbed down from the stage, making his way across the open space to stand by Stiles’ side.

John finally had the chance to see the boy up close.

He was older than the other boys and a couple of inches taller than Scott. Despite his young age, he seemed older than others his age: his bright features dulled by trauma and the sleepless circles darkening his eyes matching Stiles’. He had short black hair and the shadow of a pubescent beard dusted across his strong jaw. His wide-set eyes were pale beneath his dark brows, his sparkling irises shifting colour in the light; from hazel to pale aventurine, to a shade of light blue.

He was obviously built for fighting, with broad shoulders and firm biceps pressing against the sleeves of his shirt, the V-neck dipping down over his beige skin.

He wasn’t as calm and composed as he had been during the Games or his interviews. He stayed a step or two back from the group, his eyes focused on Stiles and as he fidgeted nervously.

“You must be Derek,” John greeted, extending his hand to the older boy. “I’m John, Stiles’ father.”

Derek returned the handshake. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You lot ready?” Peter grumbled as he strutted over the group.

John hadn’t been this close to Peter in years. Now, years later, the victor wasn’t as attractive as he was in his youth; the stress of the Games had drained him. His light brown hair was thinning and was slicked back to reveal his firm expression and weary eyes. He wore his usual snarl, his pessimistic demeanour was encouraged by the struggle of the District, the trauma of the Games and the hardships of being a mentor. He glanced at John for a moment, his bright blue eyes catching the man off guard.

John turned away and bowed his head.

“I just want to go back to the Village and drink,” Peter finished.

Stiles adjusted his grip on Isaac. “Okay, let’s go.”

John gently patted the boy’s shoulder and turned to follow Peter. They took a few steps before they realised that Chris, Melissa and Scott weren’t moving.

“Are you coming?” Stiles asked.

“We can’t,” Scott muttered. “The Victor’s Village is for the victor and his family.”

“Exactly,” Stiles replied. “Now come on.”

“Sweetie,” Melissa whispered. “That doesn’t include us.”

“Yes, it does,” Stiles argued.

“Stiles,” Chris started.

“You’re my family,” Stiles repeated. “No-one in Twelve questions it and if anyone does question it, they can direct their complaints to him.” Stiles nodded towards Derek. “Now, come on. Let’s go.”

Melissa lifted her arm around Scott’s broad shoulders and walked after Stiles and Derek. Chris trailed behind them.

They made their way through the streets of District Twelve and towards the large buildings at the far end of town, acknowledged as the Victor’s Village. There used to be a large cast iron gates and an arch over the entrance way that read VICTORS VILLAGE. They had always been so gloomy and created a division between the victors and the people of the District. It had rusted and fallen to the ground a few years ago, now overgrown with frail weeds and small dandelions. Peter shoved it with his foot as he trudged past it and walked towards the large house.

There was only one house because no-one ever expected District Twelve to have more than one victor at a time. The house itself was large three-storey building with a large porch and elegant window frames. The rich earthy tones of its paint had dulled over time, marred by the coal and dust that filled the streets of Twelve, making it blend in with the poverty and dreariness of the District.

“Welcome to your new home,” Peter said nonchalantly. He walked up to the front door and shoved it open.

The hinges groaned as the door opened. The group shuffled into the foyer, taking a second to adjust to the amazing sight. A large staircase sat before them, an elegantly carved banister guiding the steps leading up to the second floor.

The house was homely. The walls were plastered and painted pale pastel shades of green, blue or beige. The earthy tones of the house made the rather extravagant building blend in with the rest of District Twelve.

The foyer walls were painted beige. They were decorated with pictures drawn in coal, varying from houses in District Twelve – drawn in their prime – and the portraits of the victors and their families. One of them caught Stiles’ attention. It was set in a carved frame beside the doorway to the lounge room. It was a charcoal drawing of two little boys playing in the meadow close to the fence that encircled the District. Their faces were turned away and towards the woods beyond the barbed-wire fence as they sat among the blooming flowers.

 “Stiles?” Derek whispered from behind the boy.

“It’s… It’s one of my mum’s,” Stiles gasped, brushing his fingers across the section of glass that covered her signature, wiping the dust and grime off of the glass to reveal the curved writing.

John blinked in confusion, stunned by the boy’s words.

“Claudia,” Peter mumbled as he stepped up to Stiles’ side.

“You knew my mum?” Stiles asked.

“I did. She was the only one of you lot that ever talked to me. The only person in the bloody District who talked to me after the Games,” he muttered, casting a glare at John and Chris.

John bowed his head.

Peter continued, “She taught me how to cook and fend for myself, she brought me medicines when I was sick and visited when she could. She gave me that for my birthday years ago. It’s my favourite.”

Peter squinted at the drawing, looking at the boys among the flowers. He glanced over his shoulder at Scott and then turned to Stiles before looking back at the illustration.

“Huh,” he mumbled, waving away his thoughts as he turned away and walked into the kitchen.

John heard the all-too-familiar tinkling of glass and the trickling of liquid as Peter returned with a glass of whiskey, the bottle was in his other hand. He downed the golden liquid and quickly refilled his glass before sauntering into the lounge room and slumping down in a small armchair.

John cringed, feeling his stomach twist with guilt at the thought that he had aided Peter’s isolation and was part of the reason the man was dependant on alcohol.

“The room furthest from the stairwell on the left is mine, don’t go in there,” Peter grumbled, sipping at his whiskey. “Make yourselves at home.”

Stiles set Isaac down on his feet. The younger boy held onto his hand as they stepped into the dining room. John followed the, looking over the boy’s shoulders.

The wall to his right was lined with large windows that looked out over the balcony and small courtyard. To his left, a large archway that lead into the kitchen.

The dining room was a rather extravagant room: the varnished wood of the exposed support beams framed the room, a large cabinet was pressed against the wall – it’s thick shelves were stocked full of undamaged plates, bowls and finer china, a large mahogany table stretched the length of the room – long enough to sit their large family – and carved chairs with woven wicker seats to match. A vase sat in the middle of the table, a large bouquet of white lilies and roses.

John glanced down at his son. Stiles froze, eyes focused on the falling petals.

Isaac pulled the boy out of his dazed state, gently tugging at his sleeve as he tried to pull Stiles towards the kitchen. Stiles let the boy tow him into the next room.

Melissa stepped up to John’s side.

“As beautiful as they are, I can’t get the image of her out of my head,” Melissa whispered.

John sighed, the memory of Allison laying among the flowers resurfacing in his mind. He lifted an arm around Melissa’s shoulders. “I don’t think any of us can.”

He walked over to the table and picked up the vase. He made his way back out the front door and tipped the flowers and water over the edge of the balcony. He returned with the empty vase, setting it back in its place.

Lydia joined them, finally finished with her duties as a Capitol representative. She squinted at the empty vase and then to John, tilting her head quizzically.

“I’m sorry, Lydia,” John started. “As beautiful as they are-”

“It’s my fault,” Melissa interrupted, jumping to John’s defence. “I just…”

“I didn’t like them either,” Lydia admitted. She glanced between Melissa and John. “Allison?”

They nodded and whispered, “Allison.”

They were interrupted by a squeal of joy that came from the kitchen. Everyone scurried towards the noise.

Isaac smiled at them sweetly, chocolate melted across his lips. Scott smothered his laughter at the sight.

John and Chris followed, lingering behind to take in the amazing sight of the large kitchen.

It had a large iron stove and a furnace-like oven atop a patch of slate tiles. A deep trough was set beneath a small window. The walls were lined with shelves that stored various pots, pans, cups and packages. A large pantry was set in the corner, full of an endless supply of rations that was awarded to the victors. There were large sacks of oats and flour, baskets of fresh fruit and containers full of pasta and sweets.

John watched as Isaac and Stiles whispered to each other. Isaac let go of Stiles’ hand and toddled across the kitchen to stand beside Derek who lingered in the doorway. A glimpse of fear and hesitation washed over the boy’s face as he seemed to rethink his actions. Isaac thought for a moment and glanced down at the sweet treat in his hand. He snapped the piece of chocolate in half and offered it to Derek.

“Really?” Derek asked.

Isaac nodded.

Derek smiled sweetly and whispered, “Thank you.”

He took the piece of chocolate and nibbled at it.

Isaac stood in the tall boy’s shadow. He looked at Derek with a timid expression as he asked, “Can we go to the other room?”

John smiled at the sight as Derek offered the boy his hand and walked him back through the dining room and across the foyer into the lounge room. Stiles smiled and followed them.

“He’s going to fit right in,” Melissa whispered, watching Derek walk Isaac into the other room. “If Isaac shares his chocolate with him, he’s family.”

“If Isaac shares chocolate with him, he’s more than family,” Scott corrected. “He never shares his chocolate with any of us.”

“He’s been family for a while,” John replied, ignoring Scott’s jealousy. “We just hadn’t met him yet.”

John turned and offered Melissa his arm. “Shall we?”

She smiled sweetly and looped her arm through his. “Please.”

They walked back through the dining room, across the entrance hallway, and into the lounge room.

The lounge room had the same colour scheme as the rest of the house: two beige couches that were large enough for the family to sit together on and a small chestnut brown armchair in the corner which Peter sat on, already drinking himself into a stupor next to the fireplace. Blue and grey cushions sat atop the plush couches and a small television was mounted on the far wall.

Beside the pale bricks of the fireplace was a small archway that led to an alcove. In it were thick mahogany shelves lined with a library-worth of books. Two small grey chairs sat before the bookshelves and an old – but not ratty or uncomfortable – grey couch was pushed back against the large window.

Peter started to grumble and growl about nothing in particular and Isaac scurried to hide behind Derek.

Lydia strutted into the room behind them. She shot a glare at Peter and instantly the man shut up. She span on her heels and looked at Melissa.

“If you’d like, I can show you your room,” Lydia offered. “I made sure that it did have a touch of femininity to it.”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

John let her arm slide free.

Lydia led her up the stars and down the hallway to the left.

Isaac let go of Derek’s hand and chased after the women.

“Enjoy it while you can,” Peter growled at Chris and John as they turned to leave. “It’ll be over in a year.”

“What do you mean?” John asked.

Chris glanced at his friend. “He has a point. What happens next year when Stiles has to be a mentor for the next round of tributes?”

They looked to Peter.

“What?” the man snapped, his whiskey sloshing about in the glass as he sat forward and glared at the men “You expect me to say that it’ll all be okay? That it’ll all be fucking sunshine and daisies? Well, it’s not. No matter how many years pass, it doesn’t change and it doesn’t get easier. It breaks you until the day you die – be it naturally or by your own hand. There is no numb relief, no getting used to it or finding peace. Every goddamn year, I watch as _kids_ get dragged from their homes and thrown into a battle royal with no chance of surviving. Your kids were the first that made me think they had a chance. Hell, I was rooting for Allison and look how that turned out.”

Chris lunged forward. John grabbed his friend and held him back.

“No, please, by all means-” Peter set down his glass and rose from his chair. He walked over to the men and stood before Chris. Peter glared at him, spreading his arms wide and growling, “Give it your best shot.”

“Peter,” Lydia said warningly as she entered the room.

The man stepped back, slinking into his armchair again and glaring at the men as he refilled his glass and downed the golden liquor.

Lydia turned to face John and Chris. “Don’t let him rile you up. He has nothing better to do with his life but get drunk and try and pick a fight.”

“Screw you, Lydia.”

“Shut up and drink your whiskey,” Lydia replied without missing a beat. She turned back to the fathers and said, “Everyone’s picking their rooms so you’d better hurry upstairs and claim one.”

“Stay out of my room,” Peter growled.

“You’ll know which one is his; it’s the one with all the alcohol and pornography,” Lydia sassed.

John and Chris made their way upstairs and picked the rooms either side of Melissa’s.

John hesitated as he reached for the doorhandle. He carefully nudged open the door and stepped into the room.

It was smaller than the other rooms, cosy and a lot like his old room.

A large bed took up most of the space, sat back in a small alcove in the middle of the room, the foot of the bed facing the window. There was a small shelf above the pillows were the bed frame met the alcove. A faded lamp sat atop the small shelf, pushed into the corner. The people of District Twelve used candles for light as they never got enough power to use mediocre appliances such as lamps, and so the lights were used as decoration more than practical use.

A large hardwood wardrobe was positioned against the far wall, the wooden panels blending in with the colour of the floorboards.

Soft footsteps padded down the hallway and stopped in his doorway.

John turned to face the visitor.

Isaac was buzzing with excitement. His face was lit up with a goofy smile as his bright blue eyes sparkled with joy. He began to ramble, “You should see my room! It’s so cool. I have two rooms actually. One room has blue walls that have drawings and photos on them, and I have a desk and lots of toys. And Lydia said I can play in there if I don’t want to sleep in there. And the other room I can share with Scott. It has two beds and they’re big, big enough that my feet won’t hang over the edge and get cold in the night.”

“Breathe, kiddo,” John gently urged.

Isaac drew in an overdramatically deep breath.

“There you are,” Scott called as he caught up to Isaac. “Did you ask?”

John looked between the boys. “Ask what?”

“Can we go to the meadow?” Isaac pleaded.

John smiled. “I think that’s a great idea. Do you want to go and ask Chris and Melissa too?”

“Okay,” the boy chirped, sprinting throughout the house.

When he was gone, John looked at Scott. “You okay?”

“It’s a lot to take in,” Scott confessed.

“It’s okay,” John encouraged. “We’ve got time to adapt.”

“What about Derek?” Scott asked. “Do you think he’s adapting?”

“I don’t know,” John admitted. “But, judging by the way he looks at Stiles, I’d say he’s going to try.”

“He doesn’t seem very comfortable here,” Scott pointed out.

“You expect him to just slide into place instantly? Imagine if you came out of the Games and had to move in with a family you don’t know.”

Scott thought about it for a moment.

“Remember when we took Isaac in? It took a while for him to get used to it all,” John reminded him. “But look at him now.”

Isaac bounded into the room, interrupting them.

“Melissa’s going to cook dinner, and Peter’s going to help her, and Lydia is going to make sure that Peter doesn’t hurt himself or Melissa, and Chris is going to make sure that Lydia doesn’t hurt Peter,” Isaac repeated, counting the excuses on his fingers.

“I’ll go ask Stiles and Derek if they want to join us,” Scott announced. He turned and shuffled past Isaac before heading down the hall.

John patted Isaac’s shoulder. “Come on, buddy. Let’s find you a shirt that you can get dirty and then we’ll go.”

 

Isaac skipped ahead of the group as they walked through the streets of District Twelve. Stiles and Derek followed him, holding hands as Stiles told him stories about the District: about the place he grew up, the days he spent in the fields, the people in the markets and how to haggle a good price, his mother, Victoria and Allison, and all the people they had loved and lost.

John watched as his son’s face brightened and a smile lifted his cheeks as he lost himself in the tales of this District. He couldn’t help but smile at Derek’s loving expression as he watched Stiles’ excitement and listened to the tales of the District he now called home.

The meadow seemed so out of place, as if the broken wire fence had leaked the patch of green grass into the dull District. Small daisies and forget-me-nots blossomed among the emerald blades.

Scott raced up to Isaac’s side. He lifted the smaller boy off his and ran through the grass. The boy squealed with joy as Scott tackled him and playfully wrestled him down onto the bed of flowers. He tickled the boy’s ribs, making Isaac squeal and giggle and squirm.

Derek and John stopped at the edge of the grassy patch, lingering behind to watch the boys play.

Stiles let go of Derek’s hand and stepped onto the soft cushion of grass. He ran his fingers through the overgrown patches of grass and weeds that reached his hips.

“How are you doing?” John asked.

“Good,” Derek replied.

“It’s okay to admit it if you’re having difficulty coping,” John said. “I know Twelve is nothing like Two.”

“It’s not that,” Derek muttered. “It’s…”

“Us? The family?”

Derek hung his head, looking guilty.

“If you’re worried about fitting in, you’re already family to us,” John assured him. “You don’t have to impress us or love us dearly. Just know that we accept you as you are and we welcome you into the family. It may not be easy and it will take time to get used to everything, but you have us.”

“Thank you.”

A thundering boom split the air and Stiles dropped to the ground.

Derek ducked down low, bracing himself ready to run or to fight. He heaved in rugged breaths, eyes wide with fear as he peered through the grass. It took him a moment before he seemed to remember where he was.

“Derek?” John whispered, his hands outstretched but unsure of whether to touch the startled boy. “Are you okay?”

Derek drew in a deep breath and slowly stood up straight. “I’m okay.”

They glanced across the grassy area to Stiles.

John felt the icy touch of fear seep into his blood as Stiles stared into oblivion with a petrified expression. The boy’s shoulders trembled with shaky breaths. His hands trembled as his eyes frantically darted across the space.

“Stiles?” Derek called out to him.

Stiles looked towards them, eyes wide with fear.

Scott seemed to notice the boy’s state. He motioned for Isaac to stay where he was as he slowly took a step towards his best friend.

“Stiles?” Derek repeated, a little cautiously.

John took a step closer towards his son.

Stiles stumbled backwards slightly. One step. Two steps. The boy tried to move his wavering legs. He wheeled backwards, his legs collapsing beneath him. He rolled onto his front and his hands sank into the damp earth as he steadied himself. His wheeling limbs kicked up clumps of dirt and grass, getting him nowhere. Finally, he found traction. He leapt to his feet and ran.

“Stiles!” John called after him.

The boy ducked under the fence. His sleeved snagged on the bent metal. A barb stuck into his forearm. He didn’t seem to notice in his panicked state. He jerked his arm away, tearing open his flesh.

Stiles let out a painful yelp, pulling his arm free and ignoring the streams of blood that poured from the deep gash. He stumbled slightly, cradling his arm to his chest as he ran further into the forest.

“I’ll get him,” Derek announced as he dove under the fence and sprinted into the woods.

John slowed to a halt before the fence.

Scott raced to his side, ducking to the ground, ready to slide under the fence.

John stopped him.

“This is something they need to work out,” he told the boy.

“How do you know that?” Scott asked.

“It’s something to do with the Games, it has to be,” John replied. “Stiles has never acted like that before.”

Scott opened his mouth to retort, but was silenced when he thought about it for a second.

“The cannon fire,” Scott whispered. “The loud noise must have triggered something.”

“Exactly. Right now, Stiles needs someone who understands: he needs Derek.”

“But Derek doesn’t know the forest,” Scott argued. “He could get lost.”

“Stiles knows the forest,” John replied.

“Stiles doesn’t exactly seem like he’s in the right state to find his way home,” Scott snapped. “He’s your son! Aren’t you the least bit worried?”

“Of course, I am,” John replied, struggling to keep his voice level. “Trust me, I want to run out there and find him but it won’t help him. He doesn’t recognise us. He’s scared and there’s nothing we can do to help him, Scott.”

“But-“

“You saw his face,” John retorted, unable to hold back his anger. “He didn’t recognise us. He just spent a week being _hunted_ , Scott. The last thing he needs right now is us chasing after him. This is something that Derek can help him with, we just need to trust that.”

John swallowed hard, troubled by the memory of the boy’s fear-stricken expression. The same glimmer of pain and terror that filled the boy’s eyes years ago when his mother’s illness made her lash out in unfounded fury or when John would drink himself into a blind rage.

“We’ll wait for a little while and if they’re not back before the next shift of miners go in, then we’ll go and find them,” John compromised.

“Okay,” Scott reluctantly agreed.

Isaac ran over to their side.

“What’s going on?” he asked, worried.

“Stiles isn’t feeling well,” Scott explained. “Derek’s gone to get him. We’re going to stay here for a little while and wait for them to come back.”

Isaac whined and sat down among the grass, picking at the daisies.

Scott sat down beside him, plucking the flowers from the ground and weaving them into a crown. He set it atop Isaac’s golden curls.

The younger boy giggled and carefully patted at the flowers. His smiled sweetly at John and the man couldn’t help but smile back.

Scott looked towards the fence.

“They’re back,” he gasped with relief.

Derek stepped out of the shadows. He held Stiles in his arms. The small boy was nestled into his warmth, resting his forehead against Derek’s shoulder and his slender fingers coiling around the handful of the soft fabric of Derek’s shirt that was balled in his hand.

Derek carefully set the boy down on the ground and let him crawl back under the gap in the wire fence. Derek followed after him.

“Are you okay?” John asked his son, panicked.

Stiles was silent.

“I’m going to take him home,” Derek whispered.

John looked down at the thick gash in the boy’s forearm. Crimson blood streamed from the wound and seeped through the fabric of his shirt.

“Get Melissa to look at his arm,” John instructed.

Derek nodded and lifted his arm around Stiles’ shoulders. John watched as he walked the boy back through the streets and towards the Victor’s Village.

“Where’s Stiles going?” Isaac cried.

“He’s going back to the Victor’s Village for a lie down,” John explained. “We’re going to head back to the old house and pick up some of our things, okay?”

“Okay,” the boy agreed.

Isaac held his hand out to John and the man took it, leading the boy through the streets and back to their old home. They made their way across the District, stopping to greet the next shift of miners as the men trudged towards the mines. John greeted them all by name while Isaac smiled and waved at all of them. Occasionally, one or two of them would glance at the boy and couldn’t help but smile and wave back.

Finally, they made it back to the familiar house. John pushed the front door open and ushered the boys through.

“Bring anything you want to take to the new house,” John instructed.

John let go of Isaac’s hand and watched as the boy quickly scurried to their room and collected what little clothes he had and his old toys. John made his way to Melissa’s room and picked up her bag. He laid her dresses in the bag although she would probably wear the new ones that came with her room that didn’t have fading patters, sewn on patches or holes. He collected the photos of Rafe and Claudia, his wife’s old coal drawings of the District, of John and of the boys.

“What’s happening to this house?” Scott asked.

John turned around to see the older boy standing in the doorway, his arms full of clothes, photographs and trinkets that belonged to him and Stiles.

“I don’t know,” John admitted, relieving the boy of his burden and setting everything down in the bag. “Maybe your mum can use it as storefront to sell her medicines and perfumes or a medical set up to treat people in the District.”

“Like a hospital?” Scott proposed.

“Yeah. The District doesn’t have one so maybe it’ll help.”

Scot was quiet for a moment. His eyes wandered about the withered wooden boards that lines the floor and the walls before dropping to his feet.

“I’m scared to leave,” Scott whispered.

“Me too,” John admitted. “I’ve here my whole life. It’s home.”

“So, why are we moving?” Scott asked, lifting his eyes to meet John’s soft gaze.

“Because, if we didn’t Stiles wouldn’t be able to live with us,” John replied. “There wouldn’t be enough room to house you, me, Isaac, your mum, Chris, Stiles and Derek. Besides, the rules dictate that he and Derek have to live in the Village.”

Scott dropped his eyes to the floor.

“Scott, it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t make us any more privileged than anyone else,” John pointed out.

“I just… I don’t want us to be isolated like Peter,” Scott confessed.

“We won’t be,” John promised. “I mean, just imagine trying to keep Isaac away from other people in the District.”

Scott chuckled breathlessly. “I don’t think we could.”

“Precisely. And you have friends in the District and the market. You and Chris could still go hunting. Chris and I will still work at the mines. We won’t be isolated,” John promised. He drew in a deep breath and set his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “It’ll take time to get used to things, but we’ve done it before and we can do it again.”

Isaac pranced into the room, clutching his tattered old patchwork teddy bear to his chest.

“I don’t want to leave my teddy,” he cried.

“You don’t have to,” John assured him. “Just because you have new toys, that doesn’t mean you can’t keep your old ones.”

“Can I give him to Stiles?” Isaac asked quietly. “He made me happy when I was sad and he scared off my nightmares and he made me feel better. Maybe he can help Stiles too.”

John smiled. “I think that’s a great idea. Do you want to pack everything else into the bag and carry your teddy back to the Village?”

Isaac nodded.

“Here, I’ll hold him while you go and get everything else,” Scott offered, holding out his hand.

Isaac reluctantly let go of the bear and scurried down the hall to gather everything else.

“Can you bring me Stiles’ pillow while you’re down there?” John called after the boy.

Isaac returned with a bundle of clothes and his two other toys. He gave them to John before sprinting back down the small hallway again to get Stiles’ pillow.

As he came back into the room, Scott swapped the teddy for the pillow. He took Isaac’s hand and led him back towards the front door.

John quickly gathered the last of their belongings and joined the boys. He closed the door behind them.

They made their way back to their new home.

As soon as they got to the Village, Isaac scurried upstairs. Scott took the bag from John and followed the boy.

John sighed and made his way into the kitchen.

“Everything okay?” Melissa asked, making her way across the kitchen to his side. She had pulled her hair back into a pony tail, tucking a few loose curls back behind her ear as she offered John a cup of tea.

“Not sure,” John admitted, taking the mug of tea with a grateful smile. “How’s his arm?”

“It’s a bad cut, but it should heal in a week or so. I’ll redress it tomorrow and make sure he keeps it clean,” she announced, returning to the stove to stir the pasta sauce.

He glanced over at Peter who busied himself chopping vegetables and sliding them into the pot. He turned back to Melissa.

“Melissa,” he started slowly. “What would you say if I proposed the idea of using the old house as a hospital for the District?”

“I’d say it’s a good idea but you’re insane,” Melissa replied honestly. She wiped her hands on a nearby towel. “I can’t run an entire hospital on my own. I’d need help and supplies. And even then, I don’t know everything to do with medicine, most of the medicines I offer are herbal remedies.”

“There’s nothing wrong with herbal remedies,” Chris muttered from where he sat in the corner of the kitchen and sipping his tea. “And I’d help. At least as much as I can. You’ve got plenty of stock here to make medicine and anything you don’t have I could probably find in the forest.”

“I could help too,” Scott announced as he stepped into the kitchen. “I could help with the foraging and the patients. I’ve learnt a lot from you and Chris, I could help.” He paused for a moment before reiterating, “I want to help.”

Melissa sighed and thought about it for a minute.

“Okay,” she conceded. “It’ll take some time to get things set up and to tell everyone in the District, but okay.” She turned to look at John and offered him a sweet smile. “I think that’s a great idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For gilmoreG and anyone who is interested:  
> The Victor’s Village in The Hunger Games looked a lot like old Victorian buildings (http://vignette2.wikia.nocookie.net/thehungergames/images/1/15/Victors_village.jpg/revision/latest/scale-to-width-down/358?cb=20131202055722), but it always struck me as strange that they had so many houses for the victors and only one previous victor, especially considering no one ever expected District Twelve to win. My idea may have also been swayed by the fact that I love the look and layout of the Hale house (burnt or not). And so, the victor’s house in the Village of this piece is as elegant as the Hale house in its youth (http://vignette3.wikia.nocookie.net/teenwolf/images/2/2e/-Extreme_hale_house_makeover.png/revision/latest?cb=20120725032806) but dulled by the poverty of District Twelve and so looks like the burnt remains of the house (https://www.teenwolfwiki.com/files/~1539/17188-original.png), just not in ruins.  
> Despite the fact that the victors are rich and paid for by the Capitol, in The Hunger Games: Catching Fire, the inside view of the kitchen showed that it was still in a state of poverty – with holes in the curtains and blankets pinned to the windows in their place (http://www.mtv.com/crop-images/2014/11/21/cfpeetabread.gif). I did like this aspect as it was a familiar setting for Stiles – having come from poverty – and being thrust into a world of perfection like he was in the Capitol, it would have made him uncomfortable in the place he was to call home.  
> Unlike their old house, the kitchen, lounge room, dining room and the alcove they had designated the bathroom are all separate rooms.  
> I like the simplicity of the colour scheme shown in Catching Fire – the pastels and earthy tones of brown that contrasted the bold colours of the Capitol (http://www.jabberjays.net/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/Katniss-VV.jpg). The living room would have this colour scheme: two beige couches that are large enough for the family to huddle together on and a small armchair in the naughty corner for Peter, blue and grey cushions atop the couches, a small television, and a fireplace framed by cream bricks.  
> There’s a small office-like alcove with a library-worth of books on mahogany bookshelves, for Derek, (http://classyclosets.com/images/media-centers/40%20Mahogany%20Impression%20Bookshelves%20with%20Full%20Backs.jpg) with an old – but not uncomfortable or ratty – grey couch that he sits on with Stiles or Isaac to read stories to them.  
> The kitchen is high class for their society, but still rather old-fashioned (http://www.caddomineral.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/our-messy-cabin-kitchen-photo-by-wes-erbsen-log-cabin-cooking-cabin-kitchen-backsplash-cabin-kitchen-remodel.jpg). It’s stocked full of food and unlimited rations for Melissa to make medicines and perfumes, and for Isaac to eat.  
> The dining room would be a little more extravagant with carved chairs, a cabinet for the plates and fine china, and a large table to fit their family (https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/9c/2008-04-12_Freilichtmuseum_Detmold_(34).jpg or http://i519.photobucket.com/albums/u353/shopfactorydirect/Crown%20Mark/2145T-2146.jpg)  
> Most of the bedrooms – in my head at least – would look like cabins (https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/13/f8/3e/13f83e22fb04df14949412c87f52b42e.jpg) with wooden walls, simple furniture and natural tones. John, Chris and Peter would have their own rooms, simple like Stiles and Derek’s but individualised by photos of loved ones, or bottles of alcohol for Peter (and yes, he lives with them; Melissa wouldn’t let him live in a big house by himself). The bedroom that Scott and Isaac share would be similar but with double beds (http://telp.dallasacu.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/twin-bed-frames-ideas.jpg) only with lots of teddies on Isaac’s. But I also wanted something that reflected Stiles’ room, and so Isaac’s room (when he sleeps in it) would look like Stiles’ bedroom in Season 3 on. It’d have blue walls that were covered in photographs and drawings, a dresser full of clothes, and a cluttered desk of whittled figures, toys and everything he wants to play with (apologies, I couldn’t find better photos: http://www.keysmashblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/5-stiles-dream-sheriff.jpg, http://38.media.tumblr.com/98a1e93a8210e4d80eac14408ecd8763/tumblr_inline_niqvx7URiN1rqzowg.png and http://67.media.tumblr.com/3fd79bd046af567f9735e0a15cdecdbf/tumblr_nc4ah4Nqb01rohg16o2_500.gif). Even though he doesn’t sleep there, he uses the bedroom as a play room or a place to store all his toys and to hide away when he needs to. Melissa’s room would be a little more classy but still simple (http://www.beachsidewhiterock.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/french-country-bedroom-ideas-for-women-with-classic-chandelier.jpg).
> 
> Sorry, that was a long description and a lot of links and photos to look at, hopefully you like it. :)


	20. Chapter 20

Peter dished the pasta and sauce into bowls and set them down on the table.

“Dinner’s ready,” Peter called throughout the house.

Thundering footsteps echoed throughout the house as Isaac came racing downstairs and into the dining room. Scott and Derek followed.

Melissa carried over glasses and a pitcher of water. She filled the glasses for everyone and sat down next to Lydia. They continued to chat about what supplies Lydia could get her to help set up the District hospital.

Peter slumped into the chair furthest from the group while John and Chris took their seats.

Isaac lingered in Derek’s shadows, sitting between Scott and the older boy.

As soon as he was given permission, Isaac devoured his food, splattering the delicious tomato sauce across his face and down the front of his shirt as he slurped up the strands of pasta.

John smiled at the boy’s delight.

His smile fell when he realised his bowl was empty. He looked between Scott and Derek with shimmering blue puppy eyes.

“Do you want some more?” Derek asked.

Isaac nodded.

Derek rose out of his seat and took Isaac’s bowl back into the kitchen. He filled it with another serving of pasta and sauce before bringing it back to the table. He set it down before the boy and sat down in his seat.

“What do you say?” Scott prompted.

Isaac looked at Derek with bright sapphire eyes and sweetly said, “Thank you.”

“Lydia, could you get some more beds?” Chris asked.

“Sure. What sort?” Lydia asked.

“Simple cots, mattresses, anything,” Chris replied. He turned to look at John and Melissa. “You’re turning your home into a hospital, I thought that maybe I could set mine up as housing for the homeless,” Chris explained. “So they don’t have to sleep on the streets.”

“I think that’s a brilliant idea,” Melissa said.

“I’ll get as many as possible,” Lydia announced. “Please, excuse me.”

She rose from her seat and left the room.

“Okay, so the District will be cared for and we don’t have to give up our old homes,” John recounted. “Now all that’s left to work out is how we’re going to help Stiles.”

“Give him time,” Derek muttered. “He’ll be okay. Just give him time to recover and remind him of how it was before the Games. Take him to familiar places, do the things you used to do, and assure him that you still love him and that nothing has changed.”

Melissa and Scott cleared away the dishes and Isaac let out a sad whimper.

“Do you want a treat?” Derek asked.

Isaac perked up.

Derek gently ruffled the boy’s curls and rose from his seat.

“Stay here,” Derek instructed.

Derek looked to John and Chris to extend the offer. They shook their heads, the pasta being the most filling meal they had eaten in years.

Derek made his way into the kitchen.

“Did you have fun today?” Chris asked Isaac.

“Best birthday ever,” Isaac replied.

John quickly stepped into the kitchen and fetched a damp cloth. He returned and wiped the tomato sauce from the boy’s face.

Derek brought out two bowls of ice cream that had chunks of chocolate sprinkled over the top.

Isaac squealed with joy, bouncing up and down in his seat.

Derek smiled and set the bowl down before the boy.

“Is this for me?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s for you,” Derek confirmed. “Happy birthday.”

Isaac turned to John, his eyes sparkling with unstrained happiness as he repeated, “Best birthday ever!”

Peter muttered something under his breath and retreated to the lounge room.

“Go suck on your whiskey bottle like a baby and shut up,” Derek growled, glaring at the man’s back.

Peter flipped him off as he slumped down in the small armchair and poured some brandy from the glass decanter beside him.

Isaac shovelled a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth, wincing at the icy sensation. He shook his head and blinked back tears.

“You okay?” John asked.

Isaac looked up at him and smiled. “It’s cold.”

Chris smothered his laughter and rolled his eyes.

John chuckled and watched as the boy took a smaller amount and ate it.

He smirked at Derek, his rosy cheeks flushed as he swallowed and said, “Thank you, Derek.”

“You’re very welcome,” Derek whispered.

John smiled and left the boys as they were. He made his way into the kitchen and filled the kettle with water before setting it down over the stove. He added tea leaves and set it over the flames. While he waited for the tea to boil, he found the mugs. They were sky blue and smooth: they had no chips or cracks, no ridges from crafting, no stains, nothing.

He carefully set three on top of the counter and poured the boiling tea into them. He left one on the counter for Melissa. She thanked him, her hands were elbow-deep in soapy water as she cleaned the dishes.

John gave her a kiss on the cheek before collecting the other two mugs and carrying them out into the lounge room.

Chris took the mug and thanked his friend.

“Hey, Stilinski,” Peter growled from his corner of the room.

John tuned and looked over the back of the couch at him.

“You’re a lucky man,” Peter told him. “When Claudia was alive, she adored you. You had a beautiful and faithful wife. You’re lucky to have friends who have stood, and continue to stand, by your side through tragedy and call you family, even after they’ve seen you at your worst: with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and your son’s blood on the other.”

John bowed his head.

“Shut up,” Chris growled warningly. “That was years ago. Things are different now.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that it happened,” Peter argued, his voice slightly slurred. He turned his bloodshot eyes back to John.

“At least I tried to change,” John replied, his voice level despite his growing anger. “At least I put the bottle down. You’re a sadistic hypocrite, Peter. No-one gave up on you, you gave up on us. You turned everyone away.”

Peter ignore him and continued to spit the vicious venomous words, “You’re lucky to have Stiles. You’re lucky to have a kid who is so loving and loyal. A kid as forgiving and caring as Stiles. He’s an incredible boy, and you’re a lucky man.”

“I love my son more than anything in this world,” John replied. He felt a growing pain in his chest.

“You’d better,” Peter said, somewhat threateningly. “Because I gave up on him before he went into the Games, and that was my mistake. He’s not much – a little scrawny and full of attitude – but he’s a damn good kid.” Peter rose from his seat and glared at John. “Don’t give up on him like you gave up on Claudia.”

Without another word, Peter stormed out of the room and disappeared upstairs. They heard his bedroom door slam shut and a glass shatter against the wall.

“Peter,” Lydia screamed, storming up the stairs with an expression that looked as if she was just about ready to kill the man.

“Don’t listen to him,” Chris whispered. “You’re a brilliant father and a loving husband.”

John levelled his eyes with his friend. “He’s right, though: I gave up on Claudia.”

“You didn’t,” Chris assured him. “There is a difference between giving up and accepting that there isn’t anything better to come. Claudia was dying and we couldn’t get her help. The same goes for the tributes who enter the Games. We can’t help everyone. We can’t _save_ everyone.”

“I should’ve tried.”

“You did.” Chris sighed and sat back against the cushions. “Claudia loved you. You did everything you could to keep her alive and happy.”

“I wasn’t there for her,” John muttered. “Stiles was by her side when she died, and I wasn’t.”

“That wasn’t your fault. The mines caved that day, you went to help get people out,” Chris reminded him. “You couldn’t have known she was going to die.”

“I still should have stayed by her side.”

“Then I would have died.”

John looked at Chris, confused.

“I was one of the men you pulled from that collapsed mine,” Chris reminded him. “A few more hours and I would have bled out or suffocated. Rafe and I owed you our lives.”

John bowed his head again, silent.

“Fourteen,” Chris muttered. “You saved fourteen lives that day.”

“But I wasn’t there for Claudia when she needed me,” John whispered.

“Then make it up to her,” Chris replied. “Be there for Stiles when he needs you.”

“I’ll always be there for him,” John said weakly, knowing that there was so much he couldn’t help his son with.

“Swear to Claudia that you will,” Chris urged.

“I swear.”

 

It was a quiet night, everyone had settled into bed quickly – too exhausted from everything that had happened that day to object to the new comforts of their house: the plush mattresses and quiet rooms.

John slept surprisingly well, only waking when Scott gently nudged him awake.

“Sorry,” the boy whispered.

“Everything okay? What’s wrong?” John asked, sleepy but panicked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Scott assured him. “Just came to tell you that Peter has cooked breakfast and drunk himself asleep on the couch. He has a blanket and I took his bottle off him. Just make sure that Isaac doesn’t wake him out of concern or curiosity. I don’t want Peter to freak out and hurt him.”

“Okay,” John agreed. “I’ll keep an eye on him. You going hunting?”

“Yeah,” Scott replied.

There was a quiet rattle down the other end of the house and a hushed conversation.

“And Stiles might be coming with me.”

“Are you two going to be okay?” John asked.

“Yeah, we’ll be okay,” Scott assured him.

“Alright. Take care.”

“See you later,” Scott said as he snuck back out of the room.

He drifted back to sleep after that, waking to the soft creek of hinges and quiet patter of feet. John expected them to come towards his room or Chris’, but instead the boy pattered towards Stiles’ room.

Isaac tried to be quiet but his slurred mumble could be heard down the length of the silent hallway. “Stiles?”

“He went out hunting with Scott,” Derek replied.

“Okay,” Isaac said, rather disheartened.

“Still tired?” Derek whispered. “Come here.”

John heard the soft patter of Isaac’s feet and the rustle of sheets as he climbed into bed with Derek.

John drifted off to sleep again, waking at a more reasonable hour when the light seeped in through the gaps in his curtains. He let out a sigh, got out of bed and dressed before going downstairs.

He stopped in the foyer, glancing into the lounge room.

Peter was passed out on the couch with a blanket hastily thrown over him – as Scott had described.

Isaac was arching over the unconscious man.

“Isaac,” John hissed.

The boy jolted, shocked. He turned his wide eyes to John and whispered, “I just wanted to see if he was okay.”

“He’s sleeping,” John replied, motioning for the boy to step away from Peter.

“’Sleeping’, my ass,” Derek growled from the dining room. The older boy crossed the foyer and stood tall over his uncle. “Peter.”

The man moaned and rolled over.

“Peter,” Derek growled, a little louder.

“I’m intoxicated, not deaf,” Peter mumbled. “So either tell me what you want or leave me be before I sober up.”

“If you’re going to sleep, do it in your bedroom,” Derek scolded.

Peter rolled over and glared at Derek. “My dear nephew, don’t for a second think that you can tell me what to do.”

“Mum would be so disappointed in you.”

“Talia was smart enough to never have any standards – that’s probably why she married that piece of shit that you call your father.”

Derek lunged forward.

John leapt after the boy, pulling him away from Peter. He wrestled with the teen and dragged him back to the doorway.

“Kitchen, Derek,” John commanded. “Go.”

Derek glared at his uncle, livid and heaving in rugged breaths.

“Go,” John repeated firmly.

The boy turned and walked away.

Peter huffed and laid down again.

“I’m not done with you yet,” John growled, turning on the man. “You think you’re all high and mighty? You think you can call me out on all my flaws? Well at least I was man enough to do something about it. I’ve faced up to what I’ve done.”

“Good for you,” Peter drawled sarcastically.

“Shut up,” John snapped.

“Careful, Stilinski,” Peter replied calmly. “You anger’s showing.”

John ignored him. “You cry about all the chances you’ve missed and how nothing goes your way. Well, open your eyes, Hale. You have the chance to have a family again. Your nephew is back in your life and you live in a house full of people who – for some ungodly reason – respect you and care about you.”

“It’s not my fault they’re making that mistake.”

“I said shut up.” John took a step closer. “You need to set that bottle down and take a damn good look in the mirror.”

“I checked this morning,” Peter replied nonchalantly. “I look as gorgeous as ever.”

“I’m sorry, but your head is shoved so far up your own ass that you’re blind because all I can see is a whiny little prick who shoves everyone away and then plays the victim. _You_ left Two. _You_ pushed your family away. _You_ entered the Games. _You_ became a recluse when you came back. And _you_ chose to pick up the bottle and drink yourself numb. Do you get it, Peter? You are the one to blame here.”

For once, Peter was silent.

“You know what? I don’t care anymore.” John threw his hands up in the air. “You can drink all you like and push us away, because – in the end – you’re going to die with nothing but a drink in your hand.”

John turned and swiftly marched into the kitchen. He tore open the cupboard and grabbed the bottle of whiskey. He unscrewed the cap and brought it to his lips.

He stopped and glanced along the length of the bottle. The glass distorted the image slightly, but he could clearly make out Isaac’s terrified expression.

He looked just like Stiles had all those years ago.

John sighed and lowered the bottle. He twisted the cap back on and set it back up on the shelf. He walked over to Isaac’s side and pulled the boy into his arms.

Isaac hugged him back, nuzzling his face into John’s shirt.

John rested his cheek against the top of the boy’s head.

“What is going on?” Melissa asked as she scurried into the kitchen in her night gown and a thin robe.

“Peter’s being an ass,” Derek explained as he set the kettle over the stove to boil. He thought for a second and then corrected himself, “More of an ass than he usually is.”

Derek turned his back to the others, placing the scones that Peter had baked onto a plate and spooning the sweet strawberry jam into a small bowl. He carefully carried them over to the table.

Isaac squirmed out of John’s arms and followed the older boy’s shadow, climbing up onto the chair and staring at the fresh scones with beady eyes.

John joined them at the table, watching the boys.

Derek used a butterknife to slice one in half before handing it to the boy. He offered Isaac the jam and the boy took it.

Isaac held the small spoon at an awkward angle, dripping some of the sweetened puree across the tabletop.

“Oops,” Isaac said, disheartened. “Sorry.”

Derek looked at the boy with a soft smile.

“It’s okay,” he told the boy. He reached forward and helped Isaac spoon the jam onto the soft flesh of the scones.

“After this, can I have a bath?” Isaac asked shyly. “One with bubbles in it?”

“Of course,” Derek told him.

John waited for Isaac to be too engulfed by the enticing to food to listen before turning to Derek.

“Isaac’s not like other boys,” John explained in a hushed voice. “He’s been through a lot and it’s left him traumatised. We expected him to shut himself off or get aggressive, but instead he just seems more…”

“Naïve?” Derek proposed.

“That’s one way to put it,” John replied. “But the point is he needs to be supervised so he doesn’t get hurt.”

“I had a little sister,” Derek explained. “It’ll be okay.”

The teen smiled at the old man reassuringly before looking back at Isaac’s jam-smothered face. “Yummy?”

Isaac smiled and nodded.

Derek picked up a scone and spooned strawberry jam onto it. He took a bite of it. He looked at Isaac with a delighted expression and hummed contently.

Isaac giggled and asked, “Can I please have another?”

Derek looked at John.

“Okay,” the man agreed, reaching forward for a scone. He sliced it in half and covered it in jam, licking the sweetened puree off of his fingertips.

Isaac took the halves carefully from John’s hands and quickly devoured them.

Derek had just finished his scone when Isaac screwed up his face and asked, “Can I have a bath now? I’m sticky.”

Derek chuckled.

“Okay, I’ll go get it started. Go wash your hands and then set out your clothes for when you’re done,” Derek instructed.

Isaac slid off of his chair and ran into the kitchen, babbling and begging Melissa to help him wash the jam off of his hands so he could have a bath and wear his new shirt.

John couldn’t help but smile.

Once the boys were upstairs the house fell quiet.

John ate breakfast with Melissa and helped her clean up the mess of crumbs and smeared jam that Isaac had left behind.

They were in the kitchen, washing dishes, when John heard the quiet shuffle of feet.

Peter appeared in the doorway, disturbingly sober. He levelled his cold blue eyes with John and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Before John had a chance to reply, Peter held out the bottle that he had hidden from Scott when the boy took his alcohol away this morning.

John took it and set it on a high shelf in the cupboard.

Peter pulled a chair into the kitchen and sat in the corner. He remained silent as he listened to John and Melissa talk about what needed to be done to set up the District hospital. Occasionally, he would pitch in and offer ideas such as using his stash of alcohol for disinfectants or starting a garden patch out the front of the house so they wouldn’t have to go into the woods every time.

“I’m not good with people, so don’t expect me to help out there,” Peter muttered.

“To be honest, I think you’d scare everyone away,” Melissa replied.

John watched Peter, expecting the man to get defensive or lash out in anger. But instead, he sat in the corner, unresponsive.

They were interrupted by the pattering of footsteps as Isaac burst into the kitchen. His face was lit up with a goofy smile as he spread his arms wide and said, “Look!”

Melissa looked at him and smiled. “You look lovely in that shirt.”

Isaac pulled the collar up over his face to hide his reddening cheeks.

Derek leant against the door frame and rolled his eyes. “Don’t get it dirty. You want to show Scott and Stiles when they get home, don’t you?”

Isaac nodded frantically and stepped over to Derek’s side.

Peter looked between Melissa and Derek, squinting as he organised his thoughts. “You know, you two could say you’re related and no-one would question it. You do look a lot alike. However, you and I –“ He pointed from himself to Derek. “We _are_ related and we look nothing alike.”

“Thank God,” Derek muttered.

Melissa tried to smother her laughter and John snorted when he failed to.

Derek stepped up to Melissa’s side, taking a plate from her hands and setting it up on the shelf she couldn’t reach as he added, “I’d be lucky if I was as good looking as you.”

Melissa smiled and bowed her head to hide her blush.

John chuckled, he hadn’t seen Melissa so bashful since she met Rafe.

Isaac joined in with the man’s light-hearted laughter, unaware of what he was actually laughing about.

 “What’s going on?” Stiles asked as he stepped into the kitchen.

“Peter’s ugly and Derek’s pretty, but Melissa’s the prettiest,” Isaac half-explained.

Derek, Melissa and John burst out in laughter while Peter scowled in the corner.

A smile lifted Isaac’s cheeks and Stiles couldn’t help but smile in return.

“I agree,” Stiles replied, still slightly confused. He shook his head and headed back towards the bulk of the house.

 “Where do you think you’re going?” Melissa called after him.

“For a bath and then I will change my bandage,” Stiles explained. He took a step into the dining room before ducking back around the doorframe. “Oh, and, Coach is going to drop by later. His son’s sick and he needs some rations. And considering we have an unlimited stock, there’s no harm in sharing, right?”

Melissa and John looked at him with pride.

Stiles smiled and nodded to her before turning and walking back through the dining room.

“Put bubbles in it!” Isaac called after him. “It’s really fun.”

Stiles chuckled and made his way upstairs, followed by the sounds of everyone else laughing.

 

John took a moment to think.

Chris had slept peacefully, Melissa had smiled in a way that she hadn’t in years, Peter set down the bottle and joined their family, Derek felt comfortable with them, Isaac was as happy as ever, Scott had his best friend back, and they all had a future in which they could help the people they care about.

And all because of Stiles.

John felt himself smile. Tears of pride welled up in his eyes as Stiles sleepily walked past him and towards the study to find Derek.

The boy had fought and struggled for years, but he still put others before himself.

He had lived in fear of the Games every year, and still he had selflessly volunteered.

He had dreaded the thought of entering the arena with other children who were to hunt him, and yet he had forged alliances, saved lives and come out victorious.

He had stood tall in a coat of flames, sparking hope and rebellion in the hearts of those who lived in fear.

He had lost so many people that he loved, and found one he’d love forever.

John sighed and turned his head and looked at the charcoal painting that hung in the hallway. He whispered, “That’s our boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of My Boy, and I just want to take a moment to say thank you to all of those who came along for the ride. Thank you to all my readers and to those who left comments on AO3 and on Tumblr.
> 
> Again, thank you all so much for your support, for offering ideas and sharing your love. I wouldn’t have been able to do this without you.

**Author's Note:**

> For hummingbirds, angelwings and toofarforward.
> 
> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


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